


Blood to Call

by boulevarddouble



Category: NCT (Band), WAYV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood, Blood Drinking, Blood and Injury, Exes, Human/Vampire Relationship, Lovers to enemies to lovers, M/M, Magic, Magical Artifacts, Mystery, NCT Ensemble - Freeform, Past Abuse, Trauma, Vampires that go to therapy, Vampires that need therapy, Werewolves, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-16 09:13:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 93,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29947746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boulevarddouble/pseuds/boulevarddouble
Summary: Ten's tired. He has a routine, now. Find the object. Take the client's money. Deal with his brat of a progeny. Drink his synth. Watch Coupling for the hundredth time.It works for him.Until one day, it doesn't.---------"Let's go out tonight. Pick up a real meal."Ten can't stop the groan from sneaking out."Ten," Yangyang whines. "Don't be lame."Dreams of a hot bath and night in dissolve as the drizzle turns to a proper rain against the roof of the car. "Fine. But I don't want to go to that place you like. It's cliché."The door pops open and Yangyang slides in, grin so wide it shows off all his teeth, especially the pointy ones. "Yay!"
Relationships: Chittaphon Leechaiyapornkul | Ten/Qian Kun
Comments: 32
Kudos: 78





	1. Chapter 1

**__** _"Some people will hate us because we're more powerful than they could possibly imagine." His Master's voice always had an edge when he spoke. Like a sheathed sword. It was the threat of a blade that he wielded so well. Never needed to even flash the steel. "Some will hate us because they also long for eternal beauty."_

_"I'm used to being hated," he replied, brash like a child._

_His Master hummed, resuming polishing the piece of brass he had been laboring over all day. It was rare that he allowed Chittaphon into his study, but he was in a good mood that night. "That is good. They hate us because they fear us. They fear what they could be."_

_————_

The snap of the jewelry box shutting drags Ten back to reality. The hum dancing across his skin subsides as soon as the necklace is out of sight, the compulsion to move, shake, jitter finally leaving his bones. Incense lingers in the air. He glances around surreptitiously, but the burner has been artfully tucked out of sight. The spicy smoke reminds him of that house, tucked away in a very different kind of world. A bamboo forest and paper walls. A shed slapped together with discarded wood to house the bleating goats. It is a strange memory to recall, sitting on an overstuffed white leather couch in one of London's five-million-pound flats. 

The floor to ceiling windows let in ambient street light, but the moon is shadowed, as usual, by the indefatigable grey clouds that hang over the city in winter. There's no rain, not tonight, but it might be slightly less depressing if there was. A five-million-pound view ought to look out on something more than grey.

His client shakes his ginger head. "You." He waggles a finger. "They told me it was impossible to find, but I told them they didn't know you, Ten Lee."

"I'm flattered, Mr. Smythe." Ten smiles. He's practiced enough that his lips move smoothly across his teeth, pulling taut without revealing anything that would pierce the veil of camaraderie.

"I'm sure I've told you to call me Robbie. This calls for scotch!" 

"Thank you, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to decline, Mr… Robbie." He smiles again.

One of Robbie's men is already passing him the bottle. They're all the standard bodyguards cum servants, too bulky in the shoulders to be mistaken for a real butler. Their jackets all hang awkwardly on one side, the flash of leather holsters obvious when they bend and fetch. Dangerous butlers. There's the possibility that they're packing silver tonight. If Robbie is as smart as he believes himself to be, they're packing silver all the time.

"Nonsense," Robbie says, splashing amber liquor into crystal tumblers. "This is a twenty-four-year Mcallan."

Ten waves him off gracefully. "It doesn't agree with me."

He smiles wider, letting the tips of his fangs peek from under his pink lips. Disquiet ripples through the bodyguards, but none of them move. Robbie swallows dry. 

"Ah, of course." He tosses back his scotch. "Well, Mr. Lee, I have to thank you again."

"Just fulfilling my end of the contract." The white leather squeaks under his legs. The flat is a monochromatic nightmare. White leather, white marble, white rugs, glass and chrome. Another reminder that rich people should never be allowed to decorate anything.

His black suit is immaculately tailored but the starched collar of his white shirt can't hide the tattoo that snakes up his neck. It's the tattoo of a young man who thought he'd stay young forever. Robbie nods at one of the not-quite-thugs, refilling his glass. A phone is produced, buttons pressed under a watchful eye. He may not have an eye for design, but he's obviously a man who keeps a sharp watch on what matters to him. 

"As agreed, the rest of your money has been transferred to the account you gave Mr. Ballard."

"It's been a pleasure, Mr. Smythe," Ten says. "Don't hesitate to call if you need my services again." He stands and immediately is flanked by two of Smythe's guards. Ten smiles winningly. Disarmingly. Like they could stop him from hurting his boss if he really wanted to. "Oh, and Mr. Smythe. Be careful." He nods to the jewelry box sitting demurely on the white marble coffee table. "I've heard that has quite the kick."

He suppresses the urge to shadowdance and antagonize the muscle, letting them escort him to the elevator instead. The seconds tick by like floors as he descends. He scrubs a hand through his hair, breaking the strands free from their professional, slicked back prison. The tie comes off, tucked haphazardly into his leather messenger bag. He'd take off the whole shirt, but he's still in the middle of London. 

With every floor he can feel the call of his own flat, the comfort of his own couch, old and a little too shabby for someone with as much money as he has. Now that the necklace is gone for good, he can relax for the first time in weeks. Maybe watch Netflix. Old episodes of Coupling sound exactly the right speed. Nothing rippling under his skin. Nothing dragging him from his bed, compelling him to get up. To seek. To find.

The corridor is empty, more clean lines and marble floors meant to scare off the peasantry. It's also too bright for his tastes, but then his tastes run a little darker than most humans for obvious reasons. He waves at the doorman as he steps out into the night. The doorman does not wave back.

London in the winter is disgusting. The air is damp, clutching tightly to the chill of the dank wind that winds its way through the maze of the narrow streets. Ten's BMW is a few blocks away, parked to preserve a veil of mystery, far enough that he feels the need to pop open the black umbrella to stop the spit of drizzle from sliding down the back of his neck. 

It wasn't his first choice of city — too wet, too cold, too English — but sometimes choices are made by necessity. The weather might be awful but the city is old. Steeped in magic. The hierarchy is stable, and, importantly, unconcerned with him and his business. They'd almost had to leave when a human faction tried to rouse anti-immigrant, anti-vampire, anti-anyone-but-them sentiments, but they hadn't counted on the fact that England's Masters were older and more British than any of those fools could be. That the Masters understood both survival and power. That they could put aside their differences for those two causes. 

Ten hadn't bothered to get involved. He was used to being hated. He voted anyway, of course. Freedom of movement was integral to his work. Citizenship was a trip.

In the end, they stayed. London was perfect for one thing, and that was building a client list. He filed his paperwork, paid his taxes like a dutiful legal resident, and rather enjoyed how much more blasé his return trips were. There had been a time when smuggling artifacts past borders thrilled him. Made the sluggish blood in his veins run hot, like he was still alive. When the hum of magic on his skin had been satisfying on its own. Now, though, with the slick of not-quite-rain gathering on the edge of his sleeve, he's more than happy that his imports have become quite perfunctory. Talk to client. Retrieve item. Pay duty. Drop off item for exorbitant fee. Watch Coupling.

He shakes off the umbrella, sliding into the driver's seat with a sigh. The interior is black leather and beautifully polished wood. Whatever the dealer had recommended. He punches the call button on his mobile with some force.

"I thought I told you to stay in the car."

"Oh my god. Ten, chill. You were taking forever."

"It was twenty minutes at most."

"Like I said, forever. Hold on, I've got to pay."

Ten pinches the bridge of his nose. "Yangyang are you eating again?"

"It's just like, a few dumplings." There's a muffled thank you from Yangyang's end. "You're going to make yourself sick."

"You worry too much." Street noise filters in. Ten starts the car, gets the heater going. "Let's go out tonight. Pick up a real meal."

He can't stop the groan from sneaking out. 

"Ten," Yangyang whines. "Don't be lame."

Dreams of a hot bath and night in dissolve as the drizzle turns to a proper rain against the roof of the car. "Fine. But I don't want to go to that place you like. It's cliché."

The door pops open and Yangyang slides in, grin so wide it shows off all his teeth, especially the pointy ones. "Yay!"

————

Æ, more colloquially known as A&E, is Yangyang's preferred vamp-friendly club. It's dark, with flashing red lights, a black and white check dance floor, and velvet booths that have seen far too many bodies and their various fluids. A remix of a remix of a remix pounds through the air. It reminds Ten of the few years they spent in Berlin, learning how to DJ and turning down pills. That had been a wild time, the turn of the millennium, the waves of partiers rolling too hard to question anyone's sun-down-to-sun-up schedule. Even the humans did that. 

Those had been a strange few years. It had been hard for Yangyang to be back in the city where he died. Sometimes, he'd be pointing out where his favorite cafe had been and just stop mid-sentence, starting to understand the weight of even twenty years. More than once, Ten had to fetch him in the grey pre-dawn, walking along the path of a wall that used to be. It was easy to find Yangyang. He never even needed to use his magical sensitivity. Blood calls to blood. 

Most nights, though, they'd slip into one of the ubiquitous clubs. Monday, Wednesday, Saturday, it didn't matter. Everyone was partying for the end of the world. Ten wasn't the kind of person to believe in prophecies. He'd seen enough magic to know that everything was malleable. Had met enough people to know that accidents can happen. He and Yangyang were simply there to pass the time.

Of course, that was until the world ended. 

Metaphorically.

Well, metaphorically for Ten and the rest of the vampires around the world. On January 1, 2000, the world literally ended for three hundred and five residents of Fort Wayne, Indiana and the surrounding area when a cult of vampires tried to harness the energy of the Big Round Number to cast an eternal night ritual. It didn't work — thankfully — but the magic trapped by the expansive casting turned all thirty-six members feral. By the time the local masters were able to contain the carnage, there was no denying what had happened.

"Tenner! You came!" A man's voice cut through the bass, sharp and grating. "Yangs said you were but I told him I'd believe it when I saw it."

"Derrick," Ten says. 

The lanky man with ripped skinny jeans and a too-tight button down tries to slide into the booth next to Ten. Ten doesn't give him an inch. With an awkward start and stop, he maneuvers himself into the opposite bench, smarmy smile barely faltering. "Ten, babe, let me buy you a drink. We just got a fresh batch in. O-positive, right?"

"Mmm," he agrees, more to get Derrick to rush off than for any desire for his stock. 

Derrick might be a born bootlicker, but he does carry good blood. Synthetic, of course, but some of the best quality not going straight to the Masters. Ten may not enjoy his company the way Yangyang can — Yangyang's more able to suffer fools if he's going to get something out of it — but Derrick had wanted Æ to become the premier vampire-meeting hotspot, and to that end, he's played his cards right. 

The dance floor is packed with people hoping to catch the gaze of someone like him. Ten recognizes a few of his brethren up in the lounge, looking down on the revelers like so many cattle. Derrick had built it that way intentionally. To his credit, he understood vampiric arrogance. Counted on it. 

Instead of leaving, though, the club owner just flags down one of his cocktail waitresses. Upstairs they're all dressed like Moulin Rouge rejects. Ten's been swanning around Europe for nearly a hundred years and he still doesn't understand the British obsession with the French. He can feel Yangyang on the floor below him. Ten doesn't need to look, really, but he does; he's leaning into whisper to a pretty blonde with a "bridesmaid" sash slung across her chest and a pair of formal shorts that barely qualify as such.

Ten shivers just looking at her. It's nearly _December_. Humans these days have no sense of self preservation. Maybe they never did.

"So, have you heard the latest out of Camden?" Derrick asks. His eye has the familiar gleam of gossip.

If there is one thing Ten has learned, it's that he doesn't want to know. He's not part of any of the London coteries and he likes it that way. The more he knows their business, the more they'll expect him to participate in it. That's a one-way ticket to coterieland. 

"Nope," he answers. His synth arrives, and it's good. He can barely taste the stabilizers. Yangyang would share, he knows. Nothing compares to fresh. But as he glances down at the bottle blonde again, it loses some appeal. Half the fun is in the chase, and he hasn't felt compelled to hunt anything living in years. Let Yangyang enjoy it while he's young.

Derrick smirks. "Well," he begins.

But he doesn't get much further. A short, middle-aged man appears beside their table, his boxy haircut twice as out of place in the dark of the club as the sour expression on his face. He wears a tailored charcoal suit like he was born into it; everything about him as grey as the rest of London. 

"Excuse me gentlemen, I do hate to interrupt," he says, voice higher pitched than his countenance would betray, "But I was hoping for a little of Mr. Lee's time."

Derrick's eyebrows fly up his forehead, but he's a businessman, so his smile just widens at the corners. Another coup for his club if there are deals being made at his tables. "Well, let me leave you to it. Another time, Tenner." 

With that, Derrick slides out of the booth to mingle with some of his other VIVs — Very Important Vampires. Phrasing his. The man looks at the spot he vacated with distaste, like the matted velvet is more likely to bite him than the man across the table. His nose scrunches, but he sits anyway.

"I can't say I ever expected to see you here, Mr. Banks." Ten takes a long sip from the frosted highball glass. It's enough of an illusion that one could reasonably believe he was drinking one of Æ's blood-themed cocktails instead. At least Derrick had shown restraint in this one area. The first time Yangyang had dragged him here, he half expected the drinks to be served in goblets.

Mr. Banks frowns at the glass. Ten hasn't bothered to hide his vampiric nature in over a decade and he's certainly not about to start now. "You've been a hard man to track down recently." 

"My apologies," Ten says, "I was on a job. You know how I like to give my clients my full attention."

"I do. That's why we come to you." Mr. Banks wipes a handkerchief across his section of the table. The white fabric mops up mysterious viscous liquids, though the metal is no less sticky for his efforts. With a grimace, he tucks it back into his pocket. "However it appears you've also changed your phone number."

Downstairs, Yangyang is moving again. Heading towards the bathrooms. Any moment now he's going to get a text. 

"Yes, an unfortunate necessity, sometimes. You know how business goes." Ten fishes one of his business cards from his wallet and hands it to his long-time client. Banks takes it, careful not to brush his fingers. "So, why does her Ladyship need my services again so soon?"

"I'd rather let her explain it. This is a particularly difficult item to find through secular means. Would you be able to come by the manor tomorrow afternoon? Say two P.M.? I realize it's somewhat early."

The "for your kind" goes unsaid, but Ten can hear it anyway. His phone buzzes on the table. He ignores it and takes another long sip of his drink. When he graces Mr. Banks with a sharp smile, his lips are still red. "My rates have gone up since we last spoke. And of course there's a consulting fee."

"Of course." Banks agrees with a readiness that belies the deep pockets he lives in. "We'll send a car round, if you'd like."

"Not necessary." 

Banks nods jerkily but satisfied enough. Disdain in a suit. "Then I shall take my leave. Until tomorrow, Mr. Lee."

The small man disappears into the crowd almost as well as Ten can. He downs the last of his synth in one long swallow. The bass batters at his eardrums, threatening to bring on a migraine. If there's a second thing Ten knows, it's how not to overstay a welcome. 

**To: The GOAT**  
[12:37am]  
Come home after. Mtg tomorrow. 2pm  


————

Yangyang drives when they leave the city. He loves the BMW like it's his own child, cooing praise as it shifts gears smooth and nearly silent. Ten slumps against his headrest, the biggest sunglasses he owns perched on the narrow bridge of his nose. The actual fucking sun had decided to reward them with its presence, intensifying the headache he can't shake. 

It's strange, this vampire magic. Whatever ritual had created their species, given them powers beyond human limits and shackled them to their bloodlust is a dull, inactive thing. They aren't alive, in a traditional sense. Don't need to breathe. Don't need to drink water. Can't procreate. They are, for the lack of the better word, parasites.

They aren't dead, either. His hair still grows. Which is fortunate for Yangyang and the hideous highlights he got in Berlin. Ten needs to file his nails. Use moisturizers on his skin to keep it plump and dewy. His tan has faded over the years due to his nocturnal schedule, but the daylight hangover just isn't worth reclaiming his natural golden glow. 

He loathes daytime meetings. That same sorcery left weakness in its wake. He feels vulnerable during the day — sluggish. Yangyang feels it too, though he has the energy of youth in him still. It's unnerving to head to a meeting knowing he can't access his vampiric magic to shadowdance away from danger if he needs to. Even his own intrinsic sensitivity feels weaker during the day. Mr. Banks, or his employer, or both, picked the time with purpose.

Ten groans and turns to stare out the window. He prefers playing passenger. It's soothing to watch the buildings of London give way to the row houses of the suburbs, and then soon enough to the landscapes of the countryside. The summer is prettier, the lawns green and the fields lush. Then he can fantasize about a different time and a different place, halfway across the world.

Like most of the old-old money left in England, Lady Burnett-Cecil's manor house lay about an hour outside of London; forty-five minutes with Yangyang behind the wheel. They make it to the large wrought-iron gate with five minutes to spare, a tinny voice buzzing them through. 

A familiar itch starts his fingers tapping as they roll through the gate. Yangyang looks at him with wide eyes — he feels it too. He describes his sensitivity as drums rattling through his head. 

"Ten…"

"Her ladyship is a collector. Wards are going to be the least annoying thing we run into."

Yangyang sniffs. "A little warning would be nice."

"I literally just warned you."

"Oh my god," Yangyang says, but the argument dies on his lips as they pull up to the manor. 

It's restrained, as far as these houses go, only two stories and not a tower in sight. However, tasteful boughs of holly adorn the massive oak and iron door, and even in the pale December light, the lawn is vaguely green and completely immaculate. As is the suit Mr. Banks is wearing as he steps out to greet them. It's grey again, and his expression is no less condescending, despite the change in venue. 

"Mr. Lee," he inclines his head, "right on time."

Ten doesn't take his sunglasses off until he's safely into the foyer. He can tell Mr. Banks notes the rudeness, but if he had wanted Ten at his best, he wouldn't have booked an afternoon appointment. Can't have your cake and eat it, too.

A silent servant takes their coats to hang in some unseen closet. 

"Forgive me Mr. Banks, but I'm not feeling up to pleasantries today. Shall we get down to business?"

"Of course. Her Ladyship is waiting for you in the drawing room."

With every step he takes into the house, the twitching of his skin grows worse. Ten stuffs his hands into his pockets as he walks, even though it ruins the line of his trousers. Yangyang's face is pinched, the line between his brows giving away how loud the drums in his skull are. The whole house is steeped in magic. If he had a moment to meditate, he could probably tease out the different rituals. He'd been trained not to just seek and retrieve, like a dog, but to understand the vibrations of the different magics he can feel. It's saved his life more than once. 

There's no doubt much of the humming is coming from wards. Especially in a place like this. But he can feel the pull of objects, too. And the thread of something else under all of that, dark and pulsing but impossible to place. Between the sun and the magical cacophony, his headache blooms into a full migraine.

The drawing room is tastefully opulent. The walls are a soft yellow, setting off the gilt frames of the old English landscapes. He has no doubt that they're all worth tens of thousands of pounds. Probably tens of thousands for the frames alone. A fire crackles pleasantly under a massive marble fireplace. A table, Georgian, probably, laden with tea cakes and a steaming porcelain teapot sits in the sweet spot between chilly and overly warm. 

Lady Burnett-Cecil is almost easy to miss amongst the antiques and treasures. Her cream sweater, Burberry, definitely, dwarfs her delicate bird-bone frame. Her hair, an uninspiring blonde, is gathered into a severe bun at the nape of her neck, and streaked with the first hints of grey. Crows feet gather at the edges of her sharp blue eyes, the only tracks on otherwise unblemished pale skin. She doesn't smile as they sit.

"Tea, Mr. Lee?" Her voice is soft, posh, and the kind of dangerous that only generations of wealth can buy. 

"No, thank you," Ten answers reflexively. 

"For you, Mr…"

"Liu. Yangyang Liu. It's a pleasure to meet you, your Ladyship."

She hums, not quite an agreement. "Tea?"

"Ah, no." His eyes dart to Ten. "Thank you."

"I didn't realize you would have an associate joining us today, Mr. Lee. I have to confess I am a bit put out, given the sensitive nature of my request."

It's hard to concentrate on anything but keeping his knee from jiggling under the table, but Ten forces a smile. "Mr. Liu is my apprentice. Rest assured, he is bound to the same standards of discretion that you have come to appreciate."

"An apprentice?" Her eyes turn, hawk-like, to Yangyang. 

He sits up straighter. Some transitions were easier than others for him; he is a flexible person. Yangyang got over the revulsion to blood-drinking relatively quickly that first year. Adapted to a nocturnal schedule like an actual bat, though it probably helped that he'd been a student at the time. Enjoys working with Ten on honing his senses, even though meditation doesn't come naturally to his overly-active brain. But professionalism still sits uncomfortably on his narrow shoulders.

"We've been working together for some time now," Ten affirms.

"Does he have your knack for finding what cannot be found?"

"Yes," Yangyang interrupts. Ten knocks into his knee under the table. He just raises an eyebrow right back. "I do."

Ten smiles, catching the Lady's attention again. Pain thrums right between his eyes. "He is learning quickly. Forgive me, but your Ladyship brought me here for a reason and it wasn't to discuss Yangyang's tutelage."

"Very well." She beckons Mr. Banks with a flick of her slim fingers, nails painted a demure pink, the skin on the back of her hand so pale it's almost translucent. He passes Ten a yellow mailing envelope.

It's a ridiculous amount of performance, considering it contains only a single sheet of standard printer paper. But if there's a third thing Ten knows, it's that the ultra-wealthy rely on their eccentricities as much as they do their money. They hold them close to their chest, like their preferences for spotless white china or diamond cut sandwiches are akin to a personality.

What's on the paper itself, however, is fascinating. He draws it out carefully. The image is obviously a scan of a very old journal page. Without the journal in his hands, it's impossible to tell the true age. Yangyang cranes his neck to see. 

"What is it?" he asks, quietly.

"A schematic." He traces the lines of the drawing. It's two views, with the first showing the object closed into a lightbulb shape and a handle sticking out from the narrow end. The second is that same bulb spread open into petals, like a flower. In the lower corner, there's a round object with a notched column sticking from it. The paper is suspiciously empty of other writing. It even lacks the measurements he would expect to see on a blueprint. Ten looks directly at Lady Burnett-Cecil. "What is it for?"

She doesn't flinch. "Well, as you probably assumed, it's a magical object. I believe it was some sort of eternal lantern. We've been calling it the flower of light, but its true nature seems to have been lost to time. We're not even sure if it was ever created. Which is why I asked Mr. Banks to contact you. You've done some excellent work for me in the past."

The compliment is intended to disarm, but Ten's guard has been up for two hundred years. He runs his eyes over the printout again. "And you came to me because it's of Eastern origin, correct? This is brush and ink, not quill work."

"That was a consideration, yes. Rémy is perhaps too indiscrete should the retrieval take you to those parts of the world where magic is… less accepted. And Hathaway…"

Yangyang snorts at the mention of the rotund witch. Ten kicks him under the table. The Lady raises an amused eyebrow.

"I see we are of the same opinion of him. So, yes, you have perhaps an advantage if the flower is still behind the mundane curtain. However, I also value your efficiency, Mr. Lee."

"Oh?"

"I was hoping to make the flower a Christmas gift."

"Didn't you say you're not sure if it even exists?" Yangyang asks.

Her gaze turns razor sharp at the interruption. "It is possible. But I choose to be optimistic."

"We should be able to determine that easily enough," Ten says. The throbbing in his head is worsening. They need to wrap up while he can still think. "And if it is?"

"Please retrieve it with all haste. There will be a bonus if it's in my hands by, say, December twenty?"

Ten nods and taps the paper. "I have one small request. Will you send over the digital file for this so we can make a few copies? Details get lost when you copy a printout."

"Mr. Banks?" Her voice lilts upwards, but it's clearly not a question.

Ten had almost forgotten the short man was there, he had faded into the background so entirely.

"Of course. I'll have it in your inbox this afternoon, Mr. Lee."

"Thank you," Ten says. "If there isn't anything else?" 

She picks up her long forgotten tea cup, giving them both one long, final evaluating stare. The trembles of his sensitivity have him shivering as he stands. 

"No. Good luck." 

It's as good as a dismissal. They waste no time striding towards the front door, away from all the wards, as far away from her overwhelming collection as possible. As they pass the threshold, Yangyang presses the car key into Ten's sweaty palm. He's shaking, too, the furrow between his brows deep as it gets. The BWM sends gravel flying as they peel away from the manor. He'd go faster, if he could. 

"Ten," Yangyang says, clutching his arm as they turn on to the main road. "Pull over."

In seconds, he's heaving into the roadside weeds. Ten pulls out his sunglasses so Yangyang can't see his judgement.

"Sorry." He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. It comes away bloody.

Ten hums. "Dumplings."

————

Their flat doesn't have any wards. There aren't any wards in the whole building. That had been hard to find — real estate developers like to bake them into the foundations now that magic is widespread; contractors advertise having a witch on staff for renovations. No wards means that their building is old, and that sometimes the hot water takes three minutes to reach them, and the window panes rattle in the winter. But it also means he can lie in his bed with his eyes shut and not feel the thrumming of magic for a little while.

He knocks on Yangyang's door close to midnight. His own headache has finally dissipated, though sparks still dance behind his eyes. The after images of too much power in one place. 

"Hey," he says, cracking the door when he doesn't get an answer. "Yangyang, it's time to get up. We have work to do."

A lump on the bed groans. "Can't it wait until tomorrow?"

"Come on, early bird catches the worm. The magical artifact worm."

The only response is a disgruntled whine.

"Besides, it's your turn to do the dowsing."

Yangyang sits bolt upright. "Are you serious?"

Ten just smiles. "Why don't you get something to drink first?"

"Yeah, yeah, just give me a minute."

The door clicks softly behind Ten. Other than the lack of wards, they'd gotten a good deal on the flat because the third bedroom is too narrow and awkward to really be used as a bedroom. Instead of the usual rectangle, it's more of a trapezoid, with the walls almost meeting at a point — impossible to fit anything other than a basic cot. However, it makes a perfect ritual space. 

Ten's bookcase leans against the short wall, filled top to bottom with journals, grimoires, and other books on magical seeking theory. His collection is small, comparatively. For all that he couldn't dowse his way out of a paper bag, even John Hathaway boasts a better library. But what he lacks in classical training, Ten has more than made up for with talent. And almost a hundred years of work experience. 

He moves around the small space efficiently, laying out their ritual tools. There's a sharp pen knife — stainless steel — chalk, salt, saucer and, most importantly, one of those hellishly expensive sleep masks he picked up on a layover in Singapore. He wipes down the repurposed coffee table with scented oil to remove any dust that might interfere with the drawing of the runes. 

Yangyang joins him, mug clutched in his hands, bangs hanging in his eyes. 

"Did you warm up enough for me?"

He shakes his head, running a finger along the grip of the knife. "Just threw it in the microwave."

"What have I told you about microwaving blood? It's not healthy."

"It was only like twenty seconds, chill."

Ten huffs. They've been together for forty years, but the clueless uni student inside Yangyang still rears its head with frequency. It's probably his fault for babying him. Then again, it's his fault Yangyang is here at all. He reaches out and ruffles the man's hair. 

"You ready?"

"I think so." He sets the mug — World's Best Mum — on the small windowsill. The clouds have stayed at bay long enough that weak moonlight spills into the room, mingling with the soft yellow glow of the standing lamp.

"You think you're ready or you _are_ ready?"

Yangyang rolls his eyes, plopping down on a floor cushion. "I'm ready."

The ritual really is easier with two. It's his own design, a culmination of his research and trial and error. The most difficult part is the salt circle, having to twist his body this way and that to make it around in the tiny room. Yangyang smirks at his mentor's contortions. Usually that is his role. Ten pulls out the drawing, setting it in the middle of the table, and the saucer atop it. Finally he settles across from Yangyang and passes over the chalk, sleep mask, and knife. 

"Here goes nothing," Yangyang breathes. 

He draws the chalk circle on the table like he's done it a hundred times. He has done it a hundred times. His runes are choppier than Ten's but the magic doesn't have a handwriting preference. Ten holds his breath as the chalk hovers for a second over the third character, nerves making him second guess his accenting, but in the end he dots it with a flourish. 

Already the magic rises around them, a wave of energy that pulses against their nerves, trapped inside of the lopsided salt circle. Ten's skin twitches, but he holds himself still. Yangyang's brow furrows in concentration. With a satisfied nod, he sets the chalk aside and catches Ten's eye. He nods in return. 

Yangyang slips the sleep mask on. Under there it's pitch black — a mini sensory deprivation chamber. He grabs the knife and holds out his hand for Ten's help in positioning. Yangyang's palm is warm in Ten's cool hands. Even synthetic blood helps with the sensation of true life. Ten guides it over the saucer.

The cut he makes is shallow. It will heal within a couple hours; faster, if he feeds. But it's enough for blood to splash into the porcelain below. With each drop the magic surges, begging for an outlet. 

Ten curls his fingers into the sleeves of his sweater. The closer he gets to magic the more he feels like running away.

With a shaky exhale, Yangyang sets the knife aside, narrowly avoiding smudging his chalk work. They don't need to breathe for the oxygen, but Yangyang does anyway, letting the motion settle him for the last step. Magic hangs thick in the air, teasing at his tongue, trying to follow the air into his lungs.

He holds his hand out to Ten again. Last step. Ten helps him dip his fingers into the blood pooling in the saucer. With definitive strokes, Yangyang traces the last of the runes in the air. Around them the magic roars to life. Its bays are silent, but they can feel them down to their bones. 

Across the table Yangyang gasps. He knows this feeling. Dowsing is falling backwards into the darkness and never knowing if you'll land. Magic whips around them, their hair floating on an unseen wind. 

"It...It…" Yangyang stutters. He swallows around a dry tongue. "It's real. I can feel its energy."

"Good," Ten says, quiet so as not to disturb his concentration. "What do you see?"

He shakes his head, but the mask doesn't slip. Worth the money. "The thread is weak. And it's dark. I think I'm inside?"

"Okay, can you pull back a little?"

Yangyang grimaces, but he keeps talking. "Definitely inside. The lights are off. It's still pretty dark. A house or flat maybe? I think that's a kitchen sink."

"Do you hear anything?"

"I uh… a TV maybe? Yeah. It's the news."

"What language?"

"English."

Ten smiles. Some good news. "Can you tell what accent?"

"American. Flat. Broadcastery."

"That's good. You're doing great. Can you pull back a little further? Get outside?"

Yangyang shudders with effort. The magic howls at the strain. "I see street lights. Trees. It's dark out."

"What do you hear? What do you smell?"

"Um, traffic. It smells like.. I don't know. City. Like, cars. And pine. And… salt? I think?" His shoulders tremble. His face is grey even in the warm light. The magic shrieks in their head.

"Okay, that's good. You did great. Let it go."

Yangyang drags his bloody fingers in the air, signing the rune of release. Ten swipes his hand through the salt behind him. In one last rush of wind, the magic disperses, its wails ringing in their ears. He slumps over, drained, gratefully accepting the mug when Ten pushes it into his hands. The synth's gone cold, but Yangyang sips at it without complaint.

"I'm sorry I didn't get more. A street sign or something."

Ten's fingers find their way to the back of Yangyang's neck, massaging away the tension. "That was really good. You got a lot."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Think about it." Ten gets comfortable on the floor, letting Yangyang contort himself until he can use Ten's lap as a pillow. 

He knows exactly how wrung out he is. Magic isn't gentle or kind. It has no intentions other than the ones you give it. It is a tool that takes just as much as it gives. Magic has no thoughts, no morality. It will strip a person of their strength, their energy, and their sanity in moments unless there are the proper guiding runes. Designing the dowsing ceremony was a balance between power — enough to see around the world — and caution. No one wants another Fort Wayne.

Ten brushes the hair out of Yangyang's eyes. "Let's start from the beginning. First, a flat or house. What does that give us?"

Yangyang's dark eyelashes flutter against his cheek, like he's walking through the visions again. He probably is. They've done this exercise countless times and he has the best memory of anyone Ten's met — self included. "A flat means… private collector. Not a museum."

"Good. And private collector means?"

"An easier retrieval. Purchase," Yangyang recites. "And the TV. That means the US!"

"Maybe," Ten agrees. "But let's put all the clues together. Dark out means?"

"The same side of the date line, probably. Street lights indicate it was evening or night."

"And the smells?"

"Salt. Pine. Exhaust. It's in a city."

Ten smiles, softer than he'd let himself be if Yangyang could see. It's too easy to remember him at twenty. "Where?"

"If you already know, you can just tell me."

"I have a guess," Ten flicks him on the forehead. "But what kind of sire would I be if I just told you all the answers. Salt. Pine. Exhaust. Come on."

"Salt. Salt. Salt. It's close to the ocean!"

"Mmhmm."

"Pine is a forest smell, though."

"Are there any forests close to the ocean? That you'd hear that news anchor in?"

"It could have been CNN," Yangyang grouses. "Doesn't mean it's local news."

"Even if it was CNN, no one in Europe would watch it."

"Fair enough. Um," he closes his eyes again in concentration. "Maine. But exhaust would be weird in Maine, probably. Um. Some of the southern US, I think. Oh my god. The Pacific Northwest!" He hauls himself off Ten's lap. "It's in the Pacific Northwest."

Ten grins. "Yes. But where do we start looking?"

"I don't know, Portland. Seattle." Yangyang shrugs. "Can't I get a hint?"

"No. Think harder."

"You're the actual worst. I'm going to leave and never come back," Yangyang huffs. "Just watch. I will."

Ten rolls his eyes but refrains from taking the bait. Yangyang makes that threat weekly. It's lost its teeth. If he really wanted to leave, he would have, a decade ago. 

"Ok. We're looking for an enchanted object that probably originated in China or Japan, Korea… somewhere behind the curtain." His eyes flick to Ten, who gives him a nod of approval. "We don't know what it does or who has it or why."

"Correct."

"So then we go back to retrieval basics. Try to find contacts in the area who deal in magical items or enchantments. That sort of thing." 

Ten nods again, even though Yangyang is too busy following his train of thought to notice. He can see the moment all the pieces slot into place.

"The diaspora." He looks at Ten with triumph burning in his eyes. "The accent wasn't American. It was Canadian. When the curtain came down the Eastern magicians went to Canada first because they legalized magic users fastest." 

He slaps Ten's hand away when he tries to ruffle his hair. "Vancouver. We're going to Vancouver."

"See," Ten says, "I knew you'd get there."

Yangyang bounces to his feet. He sways, still exhausted from the ritual, but manages to steady himself without Ten's help. "I'll go book tickets."

"Mmm." Ten's joints pop when he stands. "Put something on Netflix. You need rest tonight."

"Yes, dad," Yangyang mocks. "But I'm not watching Coupling again."

"Shoo. Go be productive."

Even though he wasn't the one directing the ritual this time, Ten feels almost as drained. There's so much that can go wrong. He rolls his shoulders as he cleans the table, gathering up the instruments. The saucer and the knife need to be washed and purified. Nothing fucks up a ceremony faster than traces of old blood magic. 

It would be so much easier if Yangyang wasn't a natural. If he didn't have the same sensitivity that Ten does. Then they would never have met, and he'd be living a normal life somewhere, with a partner and tiny dogs. Maybe children. And Ten wouldn't have to stretch the tension out of his body every time Yangyang opens his mouth.

He pulls out his phone as he makes his way back to the living room. Yangyang's already curled up on the couch with his laptop, some dumb superhero movie flickering on the screen. As promised, there's a file in his inbox from Mr. Banks. 

His fingers fly across the keyboard in response.

_Good news. On our way to retrieve the flower. As usual, I expect expenses to be reimbursed. Please advise on budget for potential negotiation._

It's almost one A.M. so when his phone buzzes almost immediately with reply, Ten's eyebrows creep up his forehead in surprise. 

_Good news indeed,_ Banks' email reads, _You're authorized up to 300,000, but try to keep things reasonable._

"We leave tomorrow afternoon," Yangyang says as Ten plops down next to him. 

Ten groans. "I hate overnight flights."

"It's like five thousand miles. Just be thankful I got us nonstop." Yangyang yelps as Ten tucks his feet under his skinny thighs. "You're freezing! Go drink something."

"I will. In a bit," Ten says. 

He turns his attention to the TV and tries to let the inanity of the plot wash over him. There's always a nervous anticipation at the beginning of a hunt. His nerves spark with the thrill of the chase, like it's the old dark days and he's still a predator. 

This time, though, his heart thuds once, then again. It rattles his bones. Stale blood moves lethargically in his veins. This is anxiety, not anticipation, not excitement. He feels like he's in one of those classic films, staring at an old rotary phone. Waiting for a call that may never come.


	2. Chapter 2

_"They're going to look different. Old," Ten warned._

_"You already said that like five times since we got here." Yangyang's sunglasses covered his eyes, so Ten couldn't tell what he's thinking, other than reading the annoyance in his voice._

_The taxi turned down a side street. The buildings in this part of Taipei were shorter than downtown, the traffic a little slower. More busses of residents, fewer men wearing suits. It was hot here. The warmth spread all the way down to his bones. It was a feeling he didn't know he'd been missing._

_In just a few short years — so short to their kind — the world had become radically different. In 1998, flying to Taiwan wasn't easy, but it wasn't difficult. No one looked at his passport with suspicion. But it was 2010 now, and the Chinese government had officially banned magic, magic users, and those people who lived or died by it._

_Governments weren't populations. There were thousands of Chinese witches still practicing in every city. Every village had a granny who knew the old secrets. Those weren't going away even as much of his brethren fled. In a way, it was safer for them here than in the States. There, the government had finally accepted their new citizens as legal entities. But Fort Wayne was still on the people's mind. He'd gone through New York once in the last ten years, and the tight-lipped glare of the customs officer as he glanced at Ten's new, official paperwork was enough to keep him away for a while._

_The taxi rolled to a stop outside one of the more modern apartment buildings in the area. Yangyang thanked the driver, handing over a few bills. Ten's own Mandarin was rusty. Outdated. Yangyang preferred to hang out in Chinatown's bars. More than once he'd stumbled back to the flat vomiting shitty lager and forgetting his English._

_The building had a security desk, but they were buzzed up right away. Yangyang fidgeted with the buttons on his cuffs. He dressed up in designer khakis and a crisply ironed button down shirt. He'd almost worn a tie before Ten took it away from him._

_His mom took one look at him and burst into tears._

_A tiny white dog started yapping and nipping at Ten's feet._

_"Sorry, sorry," Yangyang's dad said, scrubbing a hand through his grey hair. "Come in. Let me just put him outside."_

_They stood there awkwardly as his father shut the dog out on the balcony. "Sit, please." He gestured at the couch. There were tea and snacks sitting on the table. Perfectly arranged, waiting for honored guests. His mother remained hidden in the flat somewhere._

_"Please, sit."_

_The silence hung in the air, clotting in their lungs._

_"Thank you for allowing us to visit," Ten said. "We appreciate the hospitality."_

_"Dad," Yangyang started, but his father wouldn't meet his eyes. "I like the new house."_

_"Thank you. Mei really wanted this one. She liked how close it is to the park."_

_Mei. Not "your mother." Yangyang's face fell further. "It's nice."_

_It took him a minute to put his finger on it, but their living room was devoid of family pictures. Not a single shot of baby Yangyang to be found. Nothing to confront their grief._

_His dad heaved a sigh, smoothing down the thighs of his trousers. "What happened?"_

_"I don't know if…"_

_"Did you choose this?" A wrinkled hand waved, half-hearted, at his pale skin. The face that would forever read as twenty. The teeth he couldn't see. The hunger he would never know._

_Yangyang shook his head. "No."_

_"I knew it." Their heads snapped up. Yangyang's mother stood in the hall, eyes red-rimmed, clutching the fabric of her skirt. She took a shuddering breath and a step forward. Then another, and another, and then she was running at Ten, pounding him with her frail fists. "You killed my baby! You killed my son!"_

_"Mama!"_

_There was a flurry of movement as Yangyang's father tried to grab her arms, drag her away. Yangyang sprang to his feet but was frozen by indecision. Ten just raised his arm to protect his face. Mei's sobs turned wet as her husband bundled her into his arms, stroking her hair and murmuring calming words into her delicate ears. Yangyang had the same ears._

_"I think you should go," his dad said. "This was a mistake."_

_The elevator ride down was silent, Yangyang touching his cheeks like he expected his fingers to come away wet. They didn't, though. Vampires couldn't cry._

————

Heathrow isn't Ten's favourite place in the world, but at least he's been there often enough that he knows the quietest spots to make phone calls. 

"Ten," Johnny says, voice rough with sleep. "Do you know what time it is?"

Ten checks his watch. "Quarter to seven."

"Oh. Two seconds." There's the sound of rustling fabric, and some murmuring in the background. "It's work," Johnny says, clearly not to him. Then, "Okay. What's up?"

"We're heading to Vancouver."

"Canada, eh?"

"Yes. For a job." Johnny chuckles, soft. "That was a joke. Eh? Eh?" 

A coffee grinder roars in the background. Johnny needs a fresh pour-over in the mornings more than Ten needs anything. 

"You're hilarious. Anyway, I've never been. Do you have a contact in the scene I could work with?"

"Yeah, I know a guy. I'll send you his info in a sec. Be careful, though. I heard the Master out there can be kind of territorial."

Usually, when he needed information, it was easiest to reach out to one of his many vampire contacts. But in North America, there was no one better than Johnny. How a human seemed to know everyone was beyond him, but Johnny knew _everyone_. 

"I've just got one of those faces," he'd joked when Ten mentioned it the last time he was in Chicago. Johnny downed his shot of malort like the hipster he was. "People like me."

He's not wrong, though. Johnny likes to smile and banter and never say what he's thinking. Ten likes that in a man.

"I'll keep that in mind."

"You should come through Chicago on your way back."

Ten's mouth curves into a smile, even though there's no one around to appreciate it. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Let me take you on a date."

"A date, huh? You know I don't like to share."

It's easy to picture Johnny's lazy grin. "I can be all yours for the low, low price of one date."

"Hmmm. Maybe," Ten says. And then he hangs up. Can't let him get too comfortable.

————

Turbulence jolts Ten awake. The seatbelt sign above them pings. It's dark out still, but he doesn't bother opening the window. It's amazing how quickly he's adjusted to something that seemed completely unrealistic when he was born. And on top of that, there's in-flight WiFi.

Yangyang dozes next to him, tiny in the plush seats of first class. 

"Can I get you anything, sir?" The flight attendant asks, voice quiet enough not to disturb the others sleeping around them. 

"No, thank you," Ten answers. Even in first class, airline blood tastes of nothing but stabilizers. Instead he grimaces and pulls out his phone to send a note to Johnny's friend. Territorial masters will be the death of him. Possibly literally. 

The worst thing about vampirism isn't the blood drinking. It's not the hiding, or, now, the thinly veiled suspicion. It's the boredom. 

Ten lost track of his actual birthday somewhere around one hundred and seventy, but he knows he's been alive a long, long time. His sire used to spend whole years in his rooms tinkering on his projects. He'd surface once or twice to feed, make sure his progeny were still alive. 

But Ten's not an intellectual like Master Mo. He can't lose himself in studies. It isn't that he doesn't find history or magic or the history of magic interesting. He just needs something more physically engaging. Every vampire he knows has some sort of weird hobby. Georgina, one of the few of the Camden coterie he can tolerate, would be one of the world's foremost astronomers — if she were human. As it is, she can name every star in the night sky without a reference. Yangyang seems determined to learn every language on earth, blowing through Duolingo courses at an alarming rate. It's come in handy, though. 

Dowsing is Ten's hobby. It's a business, too, because why not get paid for it. He gets paid _well_ for it. But that's not the point, really. Sometimes Ten feels like a shark; if he doesn't keep moving then he'll drown from the dullness of it all. So he taught himself to dowse. Keeps an active client list built from word of mouth. Hops on plane after plane. These days, he drags Yangyang with him.

The problem with travel, of course, is meeting new people. New vampires. The Masters of the cities and wastes where his quarries reside. He's not old by vampire standards, but any vampire that's come into their elder power can be seen as a threat. Some Masters are less tolerant of outsiders than others. Prague, for instance, is a place he needs to be on his best behavior. 

Ten settles back into his seat, closing his eyes and half hoping sleep won't come. Vancouver has to be better than Prague.

————

They get split up at customs, Yangyang held up by a chatty agent. It happens all the time. Ten goes ahead to the baggage claim without him. YVR looks the same as every other airport, mostly, funneling their international arrivals through dim tunnels, up, down, and around the rest of the domestic traffic. 

The yellow of the walls doesn't do much to offset the harshness of the fluorescent lights as he waits for their luggage. He could feel it when the sun finally rose, the shitty recycled air and burgeoning daylight sending spikes through his temples. Yangyang did the best he could when scheduling their flight, but there's still at least thirty minutes to sunset. He just has to stave off the headache until then.

The buzz starts low. Just a prickling of skin, like he's adjusting from the ambient body-warmth of the plane to the frigid air of the terminal. It ramps, though, in the back of his head, making his joints twitch and bend. It thrums in a deep bass. 

Ten glances behind him, but he's practically on an island next to the empty Bag Claim 4. A mom tries to coax her toddler into their coat by the wall. A few people in black suits loiter by Claim 2, waiting for their black suitcases to drop down the chute. No one's close by. Certainly not close enough for the magic to make his foot tap the way it is.

Overhead, the lights flicker. He stops moving. Closes his eyes. Tries to concentrate, but his heart won't let him. It thumps hard against his ribcage, blood rushing in his ears. Something brushes his arm and he hisses reflexively, the points of his fangs on display for the world to see. 

"Woah, man," Yangyang says, stumbling back. The toddler starts crying but no one else seems to be looking their way. "You okay?"

The thrum is gone but the hair on his arm still stands at attention. He should have been able to feel Yangyang's approach. 

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm good." Ten shakes his head. Overnight flights."

Yangyang's raised eyebrow says how little he believes him, but he rattles the handles of their bags instead of pursuing it further. "Please tell me we're not taking the bus."

"I got us a ride."

"Ooh, did you rent a Tesla? We should buy a Tesla."

"We're not buying a Tesla. That guy's crazy."

Yangyang snorts. "Did you see that he's upped his offer again? Half a million to turn him."

"Half a million? He could offer half a billion and all the elders in the world still wouldn't touch him with a ten-foot pole." Ten grimaces. "Can you imagine being Elon Musk's sire? Awful." 

They push through the big double doors into the actual arrival terminal, which is, of course, gorgeous. The pretty parts of travel always happen after immigration. Yangyang's head whips around immediately; there's a warm hum that Ten feels, too. He grins.

A skinny man in his early twenties holds up a hastily written sign for Mr. Lee. His hair is a fading pink. He pushes it up off his forehead as he scans the arrivals. Next to him a blond man — wolf, Ten's magic says — leans on the barrier. He pops his gum casually. 

The pink haired one bobs in an unpracticed bow as Ten stops in front of him. "Mr. Lee?"

"Call me Ten," he says with a smile.

"I'm Mark, this is Yuta." 

They shake hands, a proper, awkward introduction. Up close, the insistent buzz of werewolf is strong, but not unpleasant. Ten's fingers tap along the top of his suitcase. Unconsciously, Yangyang picks up the rhythm as they follow the wolves to the car park. Yuta pops the hatch on a dirty green Jeep, not even asking for permission before tossing the two big bags in the back. Yuta catches his eye and smirks. Intentional, then. 

Ten hasn't had to deal with wolves often — they tend to stay out of magical affairs in a way that his brethren can't. Most of them prefer to live in the suburbs or rural areas; places they can run and hunt and be free when the moon pulls too hard. When he has crossed a pack's path, though, they invariably like to remind him that he may have the lifespan and the magic, but they aren't without their own protections. 

"So," Mark says, watching Yuta merge onto the highway, "how do you know Johnny?"

Outside, the last vestiges of the weak daylight give way to the slate Vancouver twilight. "He's been particularly helpful on a few of my American jobs," Ten answers. 

"You're a friend of Johnny's?" Yangyang asks. When Mark nods, he raises an eyebrow at Ten. The twinkle in his eye is familiar and worrisome. "So are you Johnny's friend like I am Johnny's friend? Or are you Johnny's friend like _Ten_ is Johnny's friend?"

Yuta chuckles, keeping his eyes diligently on the road. Mark doesn't respond, but his cheeks heat up to match his hair, which is an answer of its own.

"Yangyang," Ten warns.

"Sorry! Sorry," he repeats with more sincerity.

"Don't worry, Markie's used to it," Yuta interrupts. He takes the next exit, highway turning into the signs of city living. 

Mark clears his throat. "I thought it might be best if we get the introduction out of the way first. Especially since Jeno and Jaemin are on door duty. It's easier to get on the schedule if the security likes you."

"Does the whole pack work for the Master?" Ten asks. It's not unusual to see that kind of relationship. Loyal wolves make fantastic bodyguards. Prague alarm bells start ringing in the back of his head.

"No. For instance, I'm in school. But a lot of us work with the coterie in some way. The pay is good. It's pretty chill, usually. And you know. None of the..." Mark doesn't finish the sentence because he doesn't need to. They all know what it's like to live with humans.

"Mark's a good boy," Yuta says. "He's gonna be the first wolf MP."

"Yeah?" Yangyang asks.

"No," Mark says, flicking Yuta's ear. 

Yuta doesn't even flinch. "We'll see," he sing-songs.

The car falls into a comfortable silence after that, Mark quietly navigating through some roadwork. They get stuck in traffic over a bridge, but soon enough Yuta is pulling up outside a massive modern apartment building. The lights of the city reflect off the giant glass structure, lighting it up like a Christmas tree. A grunt escapes Yangyang before he can stop it. Ten's lips press into a thin line in agreement. The whole thing is soaked in warding. 

"I just texted the boys. They say everyone's up and in a good mood. So that's good," Mark says. 

A uniformed human man watches the Jeep impassively, the curling wire of his earpiece clearly visible. Probably not the valet, then.

"Yangyang," Ten starts, but when he looks back over, Yangyang's already draped over the back seat to rummage in his suitcase. His favorite travelling hoodie is halfway off before he can even say anything more. "I was going to say you can't go in like that."

Yangyang rolls his eyes. "Not my first coterie, Ten."

"I know," Ten snaps. The magic rolling off the building has him jittery. He cracks his knuckles and digs through his carry on for the small, Tiffany blue box he packed before they left London. Better to be over prepared when going into a new territory. 

There's a knock on the window. A handsome wolf with a baby face peers in when Mark rolls it down. He looks the two vampires up and down with a smile that reeks of mischief. "She'll see you now. You're lucky, you caught her on a good day."

Yangyang frowns. Ten just shrugs on his forest green blazer. He's met more than one Master on their bad days. He'll take it. 

The lobby is just as opulent as every other slapped-together recent build for the nouveau riche. Inside, the warding is slightly less oppressive, though the architect hadn't bothered to hide some of the runes carved into the marble floor. The new security theater. 

"Jaemin Na," he introduces himself once they're in the elevator. He's slight like the other two, but his presence fills the small space. "How do you know Mark?"

"I'm a friend of Johnny's," Ten says, fingers tapping idly against the rail. Once he notices it, he stops. 

"Johnny, eh?" Jaemin's eyebrows fly up his forehead.

Before Yangyang can respond with anything too embarrassing, the elevator doors slide open. The wave of sensation that rolls over him isn't unexpected. They were walking into a coterie seat, obviously there would be vampires. Even so, the first ripples of the Vancouver coterie are overwhelming. He trips into the foyer of the penthouse. Beside him, Yangyang isn't much better off.

Where shifters are the warm hum of life, vampires are the cool breeze of walking death. The fine hairs on his arms stand straight up as another wolf, blue-haired and broad, leads them into a great room. 

It is exactly the kind of room designed to appeal to someone with power. Off to the right there is a seating area with overstuffed couches in a tasteful grey gathered around a free-standing gas fireplace. A collection of designer-clad vampires fall silent, heads swiveling to look at the new prey as they approach their queen. 

In front of them is a throne, gold and gleaming, complete with a gold-trimmed red carpet runner leading up to the marble dais. Behind her is a wall of glass, the lights of the city reflecting off the harbor view. The moon stays hidden behind the everpresent clouds, but on clear nights he can readily believe it shines directly on her. 

The Master yawns. The fire glints off her incisors. Her hands stay buried in the sleeves of her Balenciaga tracksuit. At her feet, two beautiful women kneel on gold cushions. Their hair is swept into high ponytails, their makeup a perfect mirror of each other. They're even wearing the same outfit — one in black, one in white.

"Well, you've come all this way to introduce yourself, Mr. Lee," she says, "so you might as well do that." 

Her presence rumbles through the room like thunder. Ten's fingers twitch around the box in his hands. Yangyang visibly winces. 

Every cell in his body is aware of the eyes tracking him as he steps forward. He stops several feet in front of the dais, lifting the small box. "A gift, for your gracious hospitality, Master Kwon." 

Up close, he can see the small shifts of her face — how her jaw tightens into a sharp vee, then more square. She blinks and her eyes are green. Again, and they are as gold as the gilt on her throne. She sniffs, her nose upturned like a button.

"What is it?"

"A small token. An enchanted censer from my personal collection." He opens the box, slowly under the watchful gaze of her bodyguards. "Brush the runes with your favorite oil and the scent will last all day." 

The Master waves a single finger and one of the couch sitters springs up to take the box from his hands. "It's nice to meet another elder who understands the old politenesses, Mr. Lee." Her brown eyes flick to Yangyang behind him. "I trust you're passing these on to your progeny?"

"I try," Ten says. 

"So," she sits up straighter, "how long will you be in my city, Mr. Lee? You don't yet have a return flight booked."

He keeps his momentary surprise carefully wiped from his face. Of course a territorial Master would know who is coming through their airport. Her lips, thick and pink, curl into a smirk. 

"Unfortunately, I'm not sure. My progeny," he stutters over the word, "and I are dowsers by trade. We're looking for an object we believe to be in the city. We could find it tomorrow, or it may be weeks."

"But your stay will not be permanent?"

"No," Ten says. A truly polite vampire would use her title. Certainly her coterie does if how they jump at her slightest movement is any indication. But Ten is not part of her coterie. Doesn't ever want to be.

She taps her blushing cheek with an elegant finger, clearly weighing her options at the minute slight. Her bodyguards tense at her feet. Finally, she sighs. "Your reputation does precede you. Know that I am not so insecure that I won't allow other elders into my city. But," her eyes flash neon red, "it is my city."

Ten nods. It takes all his willpower not to dance away from the magic of her very existence. 

"To that end, there is an… understanding with the human government. The police remain ill equipped to deal with our kind. If there is an incident — witch, immortal, wolf — they look to me and the council for assistance. I do not like incidents, Mr. Lee."

"Neither do I."

"Good," she crooks her finger at him. "Come here, then."

He hates this part, but there's no way to get out alive without a taste. 

"Come _here_ ," she commands when he stops at the edge of the dais. 

Ten drags himself up the two marble steps, following the curl of her finger until it pauses. She's small, even for a woman, even to him, but there's no question of the power packed into her tiny body. A hand wraps around the back of his neck, hauling him closer still, until his nostrils fill with the wisps of her jasmine perfume. Her hair shimmers brown, then black again. A bright red nail lengthens, going obsidian at the tip and sharp as a talon.

In a flash, she slashes at his cheek. It's a perfect cut — so quick he doesn't even register the hurt until the first trickle of blood oozes along the thin line. Her nails, blunt, dig into his nape but Ten pull away. Her tongue is soft against his skin, licking up the droplets in one long swipe.

She smiles against his ear. "Your sire's blood is strong in your veins."

His heart thuds. Once. Twice. 

"You knew Master Mo?"

He stumbles as she releases him. Her bodyguards don't flinch. 

"I am familiar with the professor," she answers. Then, she yawns again. "I'm hungry now. Will you stay for dinner, Mr. Lee?"

His empty stomach churns. The power soaking the building, the whole room, has his head spinning. "I'm afraid we can't. If you have no objections, I have business to attend to in the city."

Her eyes narrow, but she waves a finger and Ten knows he's been dismissed. 

————

"Holy shit," Yangyang says, collapsing against the wall of the elevator. He pants for breath out of habit, not necessity. "She's insane."

Jaemin shakes his head. "Today was a good day. Sometimes she forgets to wear a nose."

"Crazy," Yangyang repeats.

"Not crazy," Ten says, soft. His whole body shivers with relief. "Just old."

Yangyang frowns. "Yeah? How old?"

"Very." Yangyang's face only grows darker. Ten sighs. "Even we're not immune to the ravages of time."

Jaemin waits with them outside, silent, a good guard dog, for the few minutes it takes Yuta to pull the Jeep around. He sends them off with a wave and a cheeky smile though Ten can't make his answering one reach his eyes. Yangyang's quiet, too. The quiet that means he's thinking. They've been together four decades now; Ten can read his moods better than his own. When he gets stuck in his own head, it's best to just let him work through it on his own. It's understandable. Even with over two centuries of his own second life, Ten still has to pause and comprehend the enormity of near immortality sometimes.

The traffic on the bridge has dissipated, Yuta navigating into downtown Vancouver without looking at his GPS. It reminds him, vaguely, of London. The air has the same weight to it, full of the threat of rain. The buildings are a mix of garish modernity and those saved by the historical registry. But the people are nothing like Londoners. They happily mill about the dark streets, nodding hello to the strangers they pass. The Jeep stops at a red light and Ten takes in the crowd gathered around a mobile heater on a patio, empty pint glasses littering the nearby tables. They, like most humans, seem oblivious to the world around them.

He has a job to do, and the faster they get it done, the quicker they can leave Vancouver and its Master behind. 

"Mark," Ten asks, "Do you know anyone who is good with computers? And discreet."

"I mean, that depends on what you need," he replies, suspicion drawing out his answer.

"Nothing illegal." Ten smiles charmingly. "I just have some questions about a file I was sent. Computers aren't really my thing."

Yangyang snorts. 

"Oh, like you're any better."

"You didn't know what an app was until like, two years ago."

"Yeah, I know a guy," Mark interrupts. "He's kind of weird, but like, in a smart way." 

Ten swats Yangyang's arm but turns his attention back to the pink-haired wolf staring at their squabbling with his eyebrows raised. "That'll work. Can you set up the meeting? The sooner the better."

"Ah, I mean, I can try?"

"What Mark is trying to say," Yuta says, "Is that Hendery's one of those gamer recluse types. You want to get him out of the house at night, you have to make it worth his while."

Ten shrugs. "I can pay."

"Nah, money's not interesting." Mark's face suddenly brightens. "It's Thursday. I think Lucas is working the door at Nectar tonight."

"Not a bad idea," Yuta says. They turn onto a side street. Shorter brick buildings are illuminated by the soft glow of yellow street lights. "He is half in love with Sicheng."

"Like you aren't."

Yuta grins, wolfish. "Well yeah. Who isn't?" 

Mark just rolls his eyes and looks back at Ten. "Your AirBnB is right there. I'll text you later. You'll like Nectar. It's cool."

"It's cool," Yuta parrots. "Nerd."

————

Nectar turns out to be a bar tucked underneath a building just off Robson. The sign's art deco lettering and the brass banister of steps leading down to the entrance give it hipster speakeasy vibes. Ten doesn't regret wearing his favorite studded leather jacket, but it is possible they'll stand out more than he anticipated.

"See," he tells Yangyang, "Mark has class."

"What?" Yangyang protests. "Mark probably can't even get _in_." 

"Why don't you ever take me anywhere nice?"

"Oh my god." With a roll of his eyes, he leads the way down the steps, pulling open the heavy wood door at the bottom.

Magic rolls out into the chill of the December night. Ten likes to imagine he can see it in the air. A fog or maybe the first tendrils of frost. He shivers as it wraps around him, the heat of shifters meeting the cool of undeath, and the underpinning of general warding magic. There's music, too, the plink of a piano and the croak of brass. His foot taps in time with the rhythm. 

The wolf at the door is gorgeous, tall and doe-eyed, his shoulders stretching the thin fabric of his black t-shirt. Just the way he likes. Ten pulls out his passport, handing it over with his most sultry of smiles. 

"Oh!" The man's plush mouth stretches into a goofy grin. "Mr. Lee! Mark said to keep an eye out for you. He's not here yet, but Hendery's inside. I told him to wait at the bar. Which, he would anyway, but you know. Welcome to Fangcouver!"

"Thanks," Ten purrs. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Yangyang gag. "It's nice to meet you…"

"Lucas," the wolf says. His hand is huge and warm with blood as he shakes Ten's enthusiastically. 

"My friends call me Ten. And I feel like we could be good friends." Ten lets go of his hand reluctantly, and is rewarded with a barely-there blush. He doesn't need magic to know Lucas's gaze follows him as he heads into the club itself.

"Really?" Yangyang says.

Ten shrugs. "You're always telling me to make more friends."

"Oh, yeah, that was so _friendly_. You looked like you wanted to eat him."

Inside, Nectar is even more faithful to the speakeasy ambience than he expected. The walls are lined with a rich wood panelling and red and gold damask wallpaper. Scarlet paper lanterns hang over the leather booths, the red light a perfect glow by which to conduct all kinds of illicit business. The bar is well stocked, the mirror lined in gilt, the stools covered in crimson velvet atop gleaming brass bases. In the very back, there's a small stage with a jazz quartet gamely playing old standards. Ten nearly stumbles from the déjà vu. 

"If he's down for it," Ten says, pushing the insistent memories aside.

"Disgusting." 

Ten reaches up and flicks the back of Yangyang's ear. "How did I raise such a prude?"

It's early enough that the bar has just started filling up. The booths closest to the band are all taken, but there are a few free tables. Just two people linger at the bar, one an older brunette woman with a wistful expression and a half-empty glass of merlot. The other is a handsome man with a charcoal pencil tucked behind one ear. His hair falls in his eyes as chats animatedly at the bartender, hands gesturing wildly while the tall man mixes drinks. Despite the man's best efforts, the bartender's face remains impassive. 

The bartender notices them first, drawing them forward with a nod that recognizes them as kin. Even for amongst vampires, he be considered classically beautiful, all of his features perfectly symmetrical, like they were designed by a computer. A bowtie bobs at his throat, matching the button down shirt, with sleeves rolled up to his elbows and tweed vest accentuating the slim line of his torso. When he slides the drink to the man, though, he's wearing a pair of white leather gloves that clash with the uniform. 

"What can I get you?" he asks in Mandarin. It takes Ten a moment to process. 

Fortunately Yangyang is right there. "AB for me, O for him."

"O-positive or O-negative?"

"Surprise me," Ten finally musters.

"Fuck," Yangyang swears, just for Ten's ears. The bartender slides two gold rimmed crystal snifters across the gold-flecked bar. "This place _is_ cool."

"Sicheng," the man at the bar stops short of whining, "I can't believe you're ignoring me, your truest and most loyal customer."

"I'm sorry," he replies, not looking sorry in the slightest. "Was there an order sandwiched in between your new theory on Donkey Kong's gender dysphoria and telling me about the dog you saw three days ago?"

"Okay, but it was a _corgi-dalmation._ A corgation!" The man throws his hands in the air. "You'd understand if you saw him."

"Hendery."

Ten takes a sip of his synth. It's good. Really good. Probably the best synthetic he's had. "He wants a Singapore Sling."

"Huh?" Hendery glances in Ten's direction, but his mind is obviously elsewhere. "Oh! I can show you." 

He grabs the pencil from behind his ear and draws a small circle in charcoal. Ten recognizes a few of the runes and braces himself. When he's done, Hendery mutters a quiet "Sorry" before licking his finger and drawing the final rune in his spit. Magic whirls in the circle, a blue mist that resolves itself into a dog with short stubby legs, white fur, and black spots. It barks from within the circle, wiggling its butt. Ten wants to wiggle, too, but it's just small magic, an illusion — if well done. Behind him, Yangyang winces.

Sicheng sets a high ball next to him and graces him with the very beginnings of a smile. "Very cute."

"Thank you," Hendery says, prim. The tips of his fingers hover over Sicheng's wrist, right where his gloves end. 

Sicheng shakes his head, eyes going soft. "Fine." 

The minute Hendery's fingers touch Sicheng's skin, his eyes slip shut. His face smooths in contentment. A few seconds pass. The band starts in on a lively number, taking advantage of the talent of their trumpet. Then Sicheng lifts Hendery's hand. 

"I have other customers," he says, gently. 

Hendery shimmies his whole body, his peaceful expression broken by a wide grin. "You're the best, Sicheng-ge." With another fond shake of his head, the bartender turns to deal with his tickets. Hendery absently takes a sip of his cocktail. "Oh, this _is_ what I wanted."

"I know," Ten says and Hendery startles, like he's noticing them for the first time. "I spent a few decades behind the bar. I'm Ten. And I believe we have some business to discuss."

The booth they snag is closer to the door than the stage, but that just makes it easier to talk without shouting. Hendery can't seem to sit still for more than a few seconds. Normally, that kind of energy would make him anxious or annoyed, but it's accompanied by such a genuine enthusiasm that Ten can't begrudge him. Somehow between introductions and sitting down, he's sucked Yangyang into a ranking of best phone games.

The leather of the booth is soft, clearly taken care of, not just wiped down at the end of the night and left to crack. It would be too easy to imagine himself sitting here at a different time, with different people. His chest goes tight around a stuttering heart.

He takes a drink and clears his throat. "As interesting as Candy Crush is…"

"Ten!" Yangyang says in his 'you're embarrassing me' voice.

Ten just smirks. "As interesting as Candy Crush is, I was hoping you could do a favor for me, Hendery. I'll pay, of course." 

"Mark mentioned something like that." He lowers his voice. "Is it _illegal_? Is that why we are meeting in a seedy club?"

"You don't get out much, do you?" Yangyang asks.

"It's not illegal," Ten answers. If his elbow finds its way into Yangyang's ribs, it's only through years of practice. He produces a small flash drive. "I was hoping you could take a look at an image file for me. I feel like it's been digitally altered but…"

"But you're a million years old and don't know how to check your email. Yeah, I get it," Hendery says. "I can do that."

Ten sputters into his cup. "I can check my email."

"You _are_ old, though," Yangyang says.

"Whatever." Ten slides out of the booth. "I'm getting another drink." 

Yangyang holds up his empty glass. "Ooh, get me one."

"Maybe." 

The club has filled up since they arrived. Mostly, the patrons are human, but he sees a few more vampires milling about the crowd, easy enough to distinguish by the dull buzz of their magic. There's also the spark of a shifter, though it resonates at a different frequency than the wolves. The band is in full swing and a few people have even gotten up to dance in the small space between the tables and the stage. A tall woman has joined Sicheng behind the bar, her braids piled on top of her head, making her look even taller. She matches his grace as she pours shots and mixes complicated cocktails. They dance around each other, taking orders and serving drinks with an ease borne of hours and hours of practice. 

Maybe it's the crowd, maybe it's his leather jacket being too heavy for the setting, but heat rises along the back of his spine. Ten winds his way to the bar, ignoring the flush on his cheeks, the way his blood sings every time he brushes up against another warm body. It's not the magic — that crawls along his skin, pushing inward. This fever seems to surge from the very core of him. 

Ten leans against the granite bartop, trying to suck in the coolness of the rock through his palms. Sicheng looks up the cocktail he's garnishing, something mammoth and rum-filled, a pineapple chunk clinging to the rim. "Are you okay? You're… sweating."

He says it like it's the most distasteful thing that could happen. It basically is. Even in the sweltering days of a Sichuan summer he didn't sweat. Not after…

"Did you put something in the synth?" he asks. His voice doesn't tremble, but it's a near thing. 

"What? No." 

Ten's pulse beats rabbit fast. 

"Toni? Sicheng? Is there a problem?"

The voice cuts through the haze clouding his mind. He knows that voice. Blood thunders in his veins. Ten looks up to meet wide brown eyes, cheekbones that could cut glass, a jaw he can still feel under his fingertips. 

"Qian Kun," he breathes. He pulls himself upright, concentrates on getting himself under control. "Fancy meeting you here."

Kun recovers quickly, though the shock doesn't quite leave his face. "It's my club. It's been, what, a hundred years?"

He looks good. Better than good, the arsehole. His suit is a muted aubergine, and the shirt underneath looks like the softest jersey. It's thin enough that Ten can make out the line of his collarbone and the heavy chain that sits atop it. His hair is blond now, artfully tousled, like he's been running his fingers through it for hours. Ten's beyond grateful for the slab of rock separating them. 

"A hundred and two."

"Right," Kun offers a wry smile. "Beijing."

"Shanghai." Ten hates himself as soon as he says it. He hates himself, hates Kun, hates the way his blood has finally calmed down in the other vampire's presence, like it knows him. It does, of course. His entire body is a traitor.

"Shanghai," Kun repeats. His eyes shine with something like triumph. He hadn't forgotten, either. "It's good to see you."

"The pleasure is all yours." A laugh — or maybe a scream — bubbles up in Ten's throat, but he stomps it back down. "Well, this little catch up has been fun. See you next century."

"Chittaphon Leechaiyapornkul. Stop!"

The magic whirls around his body, Kun's voice shaking through him like thunder. There's nothing, nothing to do, no encouragement he could whisper, that could make him take another step forward. His feet stick to the floor like they're made of glue. Ten sneers. "Oh, someone's finally come into his power."

"Sorry, sorry, that wasn't okay. I just," Kun scrubs a hand through his hair. The thrall eases, the vampiric magic retreating at its master's insistence. His eyes meet Ten's, darker than he's ever seen them. "I didn't kill him."

This time he can't stop the manic chuckle from escaping. "Right. Okay. Whatever."

"I need you to believe me."

Ten levels him with a flat stare. The one that cuts down lesser men. Kun's jaw just clenches. "Then maybe next time don't try to kill me, too." 

The lighting in the club is dim, designed for sharing secrets, but all Ten cares about is that it works in his favor. He doesn't even need to move, just ducks into the shadow cast by the bartop and lets the darkness take him.


	3. Chapter 3

_The moon was almost full, which made it even easier to navigate the worn path from their house to the stream in the woods. It had been years, but he was still not used to his improved night vision. The silvery light reflected off the thick bamboo, left shadows dancing through the narrow leaves like schools of shimmering fish. Chittaphon moved silently through the stalks and down the slippery boulders to the pool where they bathed._

_Kun was already in the water, his dark hair tied up to keep it from getting wet. The dark slashes of his eyebrows were even more prominent in the moonlight. They drew together as Chittaphon dangled his feet in the water._

_"Sorry, I didn't know you were here."_

_The lie was so blatant that Kun didn't even bother to call him on it. They knew. They always knew. Blood of his blood._

_"The professor is finished with you, then?"_

_Chittaphon hummed. "For now."_

_He stood, bare feet finding purchase on the wet stones, and shrugged off his jacket, then his tunic. Kun looked away, annoyed. He was far too easy to tease._

_The pool was just deep enough that he could barely touch the bottom when he slipped in. Even in the lingering days of summer, the water was cool. It sent shivers across his arms, though not as many as the glare Kun failed to wipe from his brow._

_"Ah, Kun-ge, are you jealous?" His voice lilted across the quiet clearing. "Handsome, perfect Kun, favorite of the village grandmothers, even though they all know how long you've been here? Kun, who even the dogs like? Jealous of me?"_

_"I'm not jealous," Kun said._

_"Whatever you say." Chittaphon untied his own hair, letting it trail into the water. The gentle current toyed with the long black strands as he scrubbed his fingers over his scalp. Kun stayed silent in the water next to him. "But you sound like you're jealous. Perfect, studious Kun, who is so nice he makes the goats forget where he feeds from..."_

_The next words were choked off as Kun shoved him against the boulder with enough force to drag a reluctant yelp of pain from his throat. Chittaphon hadn't even heard him move._

_His eyes were even blacker in the dark. "You don't know what you're talking about."_

_"I think I do." Chittaphon's smile turned sly. Kun's fingers dug into his arms where he held him against the hard rock. "I can't help it if Master Mo wants to spend time with me, Kun-ge. I'm a pretty new doll to play with. It's natural to be jealous."_

_"I'm not jealous of you."_

_Moonlight glittered off the water flowing around them, two more boulders at an impasse. Chittaphon could feel the heat of him even as he floated inches away. He must've fed already._

_"Then why do you act like you've been eating vinegar?"_

_One of those strong, elegant hands brushed Chittaphon's hair from where it stuck wetly to his cheek. "He treats you like a puzzle."_

_"He's a scholar." His heart banged against his ribs. Once. Twice. "He just wants to learn about my sensitivity."_

_"You're a person, Chittaphon. Not a doll. Not a puzzle to be solved."_

_He wanted to look away, but he couldn't. Kun's eyes, always so serious, were too deep, drawing him in. Daring him to stay there. He licked his lips, a nervous tick, and that gaze flicked down to his mouth. "He's our sire. He just wants to understand..."_

_"He can't."_

_Kun's thumb barely brushed over the shell of Chittaphon's ear as he tucked his hair back, but the bolt of want that ran through him shocked him in its strength. He gasped, the sound making Kun's fingers curl reflexively around that lock of hair. It pulled, and hurt, but even that made heat curl in his belly._

_"And you think you do?" he asked. The teasing is gone from his voice, replaced by a breathiness he can't even recognize._

_Kun's grip on his hair relaxed and Chittaphon would sink if not for how Kun shifted closer. Close enough to feel the skin of his thighs slip against his own. "Yes. I know I do."_

_The blood in his veins felt like it would boil over at the press of hardness against his hip. Pinned as he was, all he could do was roll against the body keeping him there. That and speak. Provoke. "That's not very humble, Kun-ge."_

_"I don't care," he snapped. "I don't care."_

_And then Kun's mouth was on his. Like everything about him, his kiss was a contrast; his lips were soft but they did nothing to hide his aggression. His fangs caught on Chittaphon's tongue but he licked away the blood at the corner of his mouth with tenderness._

_Chittaphon didn't afford him the same kindness. He couldn't. Not caught between the cold of the rock and the heat of Kun's well-fed body. He squirmed and bit, sucking marks under that square jaw just to hear him groan his name. To see if he was going mad, too. His nails left snaking red trails on Kun's broad back as he shook apart, moaning for more._

————

He spins out of the darkness in a sliver of a shadow cast by the building, the only place on the block where the street lamps don't reach. Shadowdancing, like most vampiric magics, is more art than science. It's just something he can do — something gifted to him by virtue of his bloodless body. Vampires are creatures made of magic. Get old enough, powerful enough, and that magic will assert itself. Magic always does. The results, however, aren't always expected. Not so much in his case. Even before he was turned, Ten's inclination was to run towards the dark. 

That Kun has mastered thrall isn't really a surprise either. It's actually ironic; he was given the power to control people when he's never needed anything more than his own charisma to do that exact thing. 

"Fuck," Ten mutters. And then, louder, "Fuck! Fuck fuck fuck!"

Two women cross the street to avoid him. A cold breeze snakes up under his leather jacket but the residual heat of his blood keeps any chill at bay. His heart pumps too quickly, a jackhammer against his ribs. Clouds roll across the sky, extinguishing the stars one by one. 

That Kun is in the city is a distraction — not a complication. It doesn't need to be more than that. He will just steer clear of Nectar, steer clear of everything to do with Qian Kun. They're here on business, and that's all he needs to focus on.

"Fucking diaspora."

His feet start moving without a particular direction in mind. Robson is long and well lit. There's a certain soothing lullaby made from the sounds of car tires, the waves of conversations that sneak through open bar doors. He pauses in front of a boutique to ogle a camel trench coat; he mixes with the crowd waiting at a big intersection. With every step he takes the night grows colder, wetter. The sky is grey again, London grey, clouds reflecting the lights of the tall buildings.

He wanders so far that eventually he has to pull out his phone to GPS himself back to the AirBnB. There are fourteen text notifications and two missed calls. All from Yangyang, of course. He swipes the alerts away. They'll have to talk about it eventually, but that's a problem for Future Ten. 

Of course, they're all problems for Future Ten. That's the benefit of being a vampire — the years and years and years of tomorrows that follow just as many yesterdays. There are nothing but tomorrows for demi-immortals like them. No urgency, no responsibility. Everything can be done tomorrow. It's why, for all the decades behind his cheeky smile, Yangyang still wears his immaturity on his sleeve. Why grow up if you never have to?

Ten takes the next right because his phone tells him to. At the end of the block, a street light flickers, then goes dark. And then another. The hum of magic is so faint he almost can't feel it. It brushes against his skin like a cat's tail in the dark. 

The light next to him buzzes. There's a pop, and the bulb dims to nothing. Ten breaks into a jog. The hum intensifies, a low, low, drone of bass. It makes him stretch his legs, pushes him into a sprint. His heart pounds in time with the beat of it.

The polite British lady in his phone chirps at him to turn left. He recognizes this street, can pick out the townhouse they've rented just a few blocks away. He runs faster, the lights popping behind him one by one. Every hair on his body stands on end. The buzz worms its way into his veins, thrumming with electricity. With magic. His dress shoes have terrible traction but he runs anyway. It isn't enough. The magic stays with him, almost painful as it pricks his skin.

With a grunt he throws himself up the porch steps, jabbing at the keypad. He's biting his finger before the door even slams behind him. Blood isn't his favorite medium for this, but it's what he's got. Ten draws his circle and his sigils in hasty handwriting on the back of the white-painted wood. He can still feel it pulsing, close. Too close. Blood rushes in his ears. One final swipe to accent his rune and more magic surges around him, summoned for his own purposes. His fingers twitch, but he's careful to keep them out of the way as the ward ripples across the walls of the townhouse. 

The buzzing falls away, replaced by the familiar hum of warding. Ten slumps against the bannister. He'll need to feed tomorrow. 

"What the fuck was that? Where the fuck have you been?" Yangyang glares down at him from the top of the stairs. 

"Not now," Ten says brushing past him.

"Uh, yes now." 

Ten ignores Yangyang's tight-lipped scowl, tossing his jacket on the couch and heading straight for the bathroom. Yangyang follows him, like the brat he is, not even putting up a protest when Ten tosses his shirt at him. 

"You ran out on a meeting. No, you _danced away_ do not tell me you didn't, I could feel it. Then you didn't answer your phone for _three hours._ I think I deserve an explanation. And no 'I sired you so I don't have to answer to you' bullshit."

"When," Ten sighs, "have I ever said that?"

"Well, never." Yangyang's arms stay crossed but concern flits through his eyes. "But you've never done _that_ before, either."

Ten sits on the toilet and strips off his socks one by one. He's too tired to argue. Too tired to think. The hum of the warding trips across his skin, and he knows Yangyang is hearing it, too. Magic is exhausting. 

"If I promise we can talk about this tomorrow, will you let me take a shower in peace?"

"Promise?"

"Promise."

"Fine." He lingers in the door, even as Ten pops the buttons of his fly on his black skinny jeans. "You're okay, though, right?"

Ten forces a smile. It's not a good one, he's not hiding anything, but it seems to be enough. "I'm okay. But I need a shower."

"Yeah, I could smell you from a mile away," Yangyang teases. His heart isn't in it either. "I'm going to put together a list of antiques dealers to visit tomorrow. You're sure you're really, really okay?"

"Out!" Ten snaps him with the edge of the towel. This is why he never wanted kids.

The hot spray of the shower is less relaxing than it should be. There's nothing relaxing about the black of Kun's eyes, his pupils blown wide in the soft light of the club. A hundred years and they end up in the same city again. This time it's obviously a coincidence. Ten had come to him, not the other way around. Not like Bangkok. Or Guangzhou. Or… Shanghai.

He scrubs his body hard, but it doesn't even pink up. If only he'd gotten to have a second drink, maybe he wouldn't feel so wrung-out. But then again, nothing about Kun is easy. Until a few hours ago, he'd been Past Ten's problem. Out of sight, out of mind. He'd been able to push away the memories of how his blood tastes, licked from the plane of his chest. His own blood would never let him forget it, but at least it let him forget to remember.

Shanghai had almost broken his resolve. Kun had shown up at the bar where Ten had found work, immaculate in the three-piece tweed the socialites preferred. He'd slid the letter across to him without a word, just watched him, eyes big and brown and sorry, as Ten tucked it into his vest. He'd sipped the cocktail Ten made for him without complaint, even though it was Kun who always scolded him for eating Grandma Bo's noodles.

Ten had almost broken; Kun stayed there all night, silent as a mouse. Ten didn't acknowledge him except to refill his glass, and yet he stayed. And when the bar closed at nearly sun up, he waited again, in the alley out back. But then, just as Ten opened his mouth to invite him home, there was a clattering and the yowl of a stray. Kun jerked in surprise, grabbing Ten's hand, inhuman reflexes almost too fast for his eyes to follow. 

And Ten was back in the bamboo, running for his life.

The pipes rattle as he turns off the water. That's a path he refuses to go down tonight. Instead, he pulls on his softest pajamas and forces Yangyang to share his body warmth as he scrolls through google listings.

————

Ten wakes up early the next day by vampire standards, around two P.M., just puttering around the AirBnB. He rechecks Yangyang's list and emails a few of the "appointment only" names. The weak December sun still has him dragging his duvet around like a child reluctant to get out of bed. He _is_ reluctant to get out of bed, but he has a job to do, and most of the shops on the list close at six. 

Yangyang wakes up just after three-thirty, padding into their rented living room to watch Ten struggle with his VPN. 

"You know they have Netflix in Canada, right?"

"I just wanted to watch Coupling." Ten sheds his blanket like a disgruntled caterpillar, but he certainly doesn't feel like a butterfly as he follows Yangyang into the kitchen. 

Yangyang groans, frowning at the empty fridge. "Nothing?"

"I have an order getting delivered tomorrow. We'll have to go out tonight."

"Nectar?" Yangyang asks. It's obviously meant to provoke, and he just laughs at Ten's dirty look. "What? They have good synth. Like, really good synth."

Ten grunts, padding back to his cocoon on the couch. It's not an agreement, but it's not-not an agreement. Yangyang squirms in after him, quietly showing him how to adjust the settings for Canada. Only when the episode credits start to play does he poke him in the side.

"So are we gonna talk about it or are we gonna sulk all day."

"Option B."

"Ten," he whines. 

Ten sighs. "No, no more sulking. We need to hit at least two shops today. We're on a deadline."

"Ten. You promised." Yangyang, unfortunately, has perfect eyebrows for skepticism. It's a look he's been refining his whole life and even Ten isn't immune.

"Qian Kun and I have a… history," Ten starts. 

Yangyang snorts. "No shit."

"Do you want to hear my story or not? Disrespectful child. Who raised you?"

"We are all the architects of our own destruction." 

"Next time you die, don't come running to me for sympathy." 

Yangyang leans into him with his whole body. "Sorry, da-ge, please continue."

"As I was saying," Ten tries his best to look imperious, but with the duvet still curled around his head, he's not sure how well he pulls it off. "Kun and I have a history. We share the same sire. Mo Hengzhi."

"The professor. He's dead now," Yangyang recites like it's just another fact he learned in school.

Ten nods. It's not as if he's tried to keep Yangyang's lineage a secret over the years. It just hadn't come up often. Possibly because Ten has tried his hardest to avoid this exact conversation. Tried to protect him from some of their world's nastier realities. It was the least he could do, after everything. 

"And Kun murdered him."

"Wh…"

The question dies on Yangyang's lips as the doorbell rings. It's a shrill noise that echoes through the townhouse, but it's nothing compared to the magical flare Ten's hastily scribbled ward sends through them both. 

"You expecting someone?" Ten asks.

Yangyang shakes his head, frowning. The doorbell rings again, and Ten forces himself off the couch, grabbing a wet paper towel before heading down the stairs. A peek through the peephole doesn't answer any questions. There's a man there, probably about Ten's height, with black hair, sharp cheekbones and even sharper eyebrows. Underneath the beat of the ward is the cool, creeping magic of a vampire. 

He goes for the doorbell a third time before Ten yells, "Hang on!"

The blood scrubs off easily enough, though it only takes a single swipe to break the warding. They're definitely going to have to pay an extra cleaning fee, though. He cracks the door, keeping the chain lock on. It won't actually do anything against a determined assailant, but the illusion of protection is always nice. Plus, it helps him look standoffish and grouchy. Which he is today.

"Can I help you?" he asks, his tone falling just on the right side of polite.

"Hi, I'm looking for Ten Lee?" 

"And you are?"

The man smiles, but it sits awkwardly on his face, like he doesn't want to be there at all. "Dejun Xiao. I'm here on behalf of my sire."

Ten shuts the door.

The doorbell rings again. And again. And again.

"Ten!" Yangyang shouts from the living room. "Make it stop!"

With a growl, he flings the door open. "What?"

Dejun smirks. "Mr. Qian was hoping you'd be willing to meet with him before the club opens tonight. Fridays are our busiest nights, so earlier is better."

"No, thank you." Ten slams the door shut. He's halfway up the stairs before the doorbell rings again. This time it's not a single ring, but an insistent press of the button that doesn't let up. Ten throws himself onto the couch, pulling the duvet up over his head.

Yangyang raises an eyebrow. "Not the milkman?"

"He'll go away in a bit."

The doorbell dings out a reasonable approximation of Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.

"Oh my god," Yangyang says. 

The couch shifts as he gets up. Under the covers, Ten can't actually hear what happens beyond the footsteps heading down the hall, but he doesn't care. There's something safe, comforting, about the weight of the blanket on his face. It's another illusion. A duvet can't protect anyone from the monsters hiding under the bed — he should know. He's one of the monsters. But sometimes it's okay to pretend. 

Until two sets of footsteps stomp back up the stairs.

"What the fuck, Yangyang," Ten spits. Static sparks in his hair where the comforter rubbed it. 

His smile is entirely unrepentant. "You promised to tell me all about it. Now, I get to hear both sides."

"You're not seriously going. You can't go. I forbid you from going."

"As my sire?"

"Yes! No!" Ten can feel Yangyang's self-satisfied grin down to his bones. "Qian Kun is dangerous."

"You know, I've never met a murderer before."

Dejun's thick eyebrows flex at that, but he seems content enough to watch them bicker, leaning against the wall. 

Ten frowns. "You _literally_ have. Remember Prague? Am I the only one here who remembers Prague?"

"I've never been to Prague," Dejun volunteers. Somehow, Ten's glare doesn't phase him. He's dressed casually for a vampire, just skinny jeans and an oversized sweater, like a regular human guy, and not the progeny of Ten's worst nightmare.

"Then it would be super good if I had a friend come, too, huh?" Yangyang smiles, angelic.

"We can't," Ten grasps for straws, "we haven't eaten."

"We'll feed you," Dejun says. "We've actually been playing with this experimental AO blend? It's got some interesting notes, but I like it."

"We can't," he repeats, but he doesn't have an excuse to back it up.

Defeat must show through the cracks in his glower, because then Yangyang's kneeling in front of him, squeezing his knees reassuringly. "Hey, we don't have to go."

"You kind of do," Dejun interrupts. "I was told to bring you by any means necessary. Short of actual violence."

"We don't have to go," Yangyang says again, sharper this time. "But I thought it might be good to get it over with. On your terms."

"And what, being marched directly into his lair is somehow my terms?"

"Well, no. But last night you were unprepared. _We_ were unprepared. It's one meeting. Treat it like a particularly unpleasant client."

"A client who tried to kill me," Ten huffs.

Yangyang shrugs. "Prague."

Ten lets his head tip back on the couch with a groan. A determined Kun is an unstoppable force, this he knows from experience. He's been the immovable object often enough. Yangyang's right, too, which makes the whole thing even worse. Better to rip the bandaid off quickly so they can get the job done without him looming over their heads like the vampire of Damocles.

He fixes Dejun with a sideways look. "How did you convince this one?"

"Uh," for the first time he looks actually nervous, "I introduced myself and then he said 'so, my dad says your dad killed their dad' and I said 'no he didn't' and then he said 'okay, cool.'"

"Yangyang!" Ten shouts, but his terrible brat of a progeny has already barricaded himself in the bathroom. 

Dejun winces. "So, um, I'm just gonna schedule an Uber. Thirty minutes good?"

————-

On his own terms is apparently not particularly weather appropriate. The sky splits open the minute their Uber pulls up to the curb, a steady soaking rain that would be pretty if he didn't have to be out and about in it in a jumper that is more hole than knit. 

Yangyang took one look at him — the jumper, the tight red trousers, the swipe of eyeliner — and smirked. "It's like _that_ , huh?"

In the sodden twilight, the building they pull up to lacks any of the charm from the night before. It's just as dingy as its neighbours, covered in city grime, with security bars over the first floor windows. They pour out of the car, sprinting after Dejun as he leads them to a door around back. 

One turn of a key and Ten crosses the threshold into Kun's space. There's a myth, persistent even after Fort Wayne and the public health campaigns that followed, that vampires can't enter a home without permission. Perhaps it was true once, when humans were less frightened of magic. Good wards can keep a whole host of monsters at bay. But it hasn't been true as long as Ten has been alive. Still, his blood heats as he steps into the non-descript hallway. 

"I think he's in the tasting room," Dejun says. 

The hallway opens into a well-lit space, white walls and utilitarian tile floors. There are several gleaming metal benches, like you'd see in a restaurant, but Ten doesn't recognize any of the equipment resting there. Off to the side is a white board with a few notes scribbled on it. He can't make heads or tails of them, but the handwriting is familiar.

"What is this place?" Yangyang asks.

"Kun's lab," Dejun answers, like it's the most normal thing and not something Ten has to wrap his entire brain around.

"Kun's lab," Ten echoes.

Dejun raises one of those expressive eyebrows. "For his formulas?" He gestures to the big silver door of a refrigerated room. "We keep the samples in there, and then the best ones go off to the big lab for further testing and then large-scale manufacturing."

Fortunately, Yangyang doesn't have the same hesitance to voice his confusion. "Samples?"

"Synth." Dejun shakes his head at their blank expressions. "It's like what Vancouver's known for? Weed and synth. Master Kwon invested heavily in production the minute... everything... went down. Some of the hospitals even contract with us. She made Kun apply for patents, even though that was..."

He trails off as he realizes he's probably volunteering too much information. With a cough, he opens another door, glass and wood. "Anyway, this is the lab. Follow me."

They cross an expensive foyer, older, more traditional, with marble and decorative statues. There's a winding staircase leading to the second floor, but Dejun walks right past it, leading them into another room that's simply Nectar, but smaller. Leather armchairs replace leather booths. Red wallpaper, scarlet rug, dark wood paneling on the wet bar dominating the back of the room. There's a traditional painted scroll hanging on the wall. It's a landscape — mountainside with blooming trees. He's no specialist, but he's pretty sure it's authentic. 

"Kun?" Dejun calls. "I could've sworn..."

There's a thump and a muffled curse in Mandarin. Kun's face pops over the lip of the bartop, rubbing away a bump on his forehead. "Oh. Shit. Hi. Hello. You came." He stands, wiping his hands on his jeans. "Sorry, there was a leak. Anyway, yes. Thank you. For coming."

His white button down has a smudge of something dark on his chest. His sleeves are rolled up to show off his forearms. Ten feels slightly faint. It's probably because he hasn't eaten. He shrugs out of his overcoat, tossing it haphazardly over the back of an armchair. It's maybe a bit contrived, but there's a grim satisfaction in the way Kun's eyes sweep over the length of his body anyway. 

"Well, who am I to turn down a free meal," Ten says. 

"What? Oh." Kun catches up as Dejun moves swiftly behind the bar. "In that case, please, take a seat. Sorry, I know Dejun's an effective negotiator, but I..." He scrubs a hand through his hair. 

On top of everything else, Ten has not entirely processed that he's blond. Blond! Kun! Kun is blond! His Kun! 

Kun sighs. "I didn't think you'd come."

Yangyang barely swallows a laugh. "Sorry," he mouths. 

"Kun, this is Yangyang Liu, my pain-in-the-arse."

Kun's eyebrows fly up his head. "You have progeny?"

"For now." Ten's glare is hard enough to cut diamonds. "He has a shocking lack of self-preservation instincts."

"It's nice to meet you," Yangyang says, proving Ten's point.

"Yeah," Kun replies. His eyes flick from Yangyang to Ten, dazed. "I mean, yes. Nice to meet you, too. You've met Dejun, obviously. And Sicheng's still sleeping, I think. I'm not his sire, but yeah. He's," he waves a hand, "part of the household."

"The bartender, right?" Yangyang asks. Kun nods. "We met him last night."

"So," Ten cuts in, "small talk, small talk, small talk. Are we good now?"

Dejun takes that exact moment to place a tray on the marble coffee table. The six short, narrow-mouthed snifters sit perfectly on labeled circles. Each one looks like its neighbour, the red liquid clinging, viscous, to the sides of the glass. All that blood between them like a heavy-handed metaphor. 

"I think you'd like our newest AB," Dejun says, handing off a glass to Yangyang.

"Ooh. Psycho or genius?"

Dejun smiles, smug. "Both."

"Intriguing," Yangyang says.

"Let me guess," Kun says, pushing a glass towards Ten, "you're an O-positive."

He is. 

"Good guess, but no." Ten grabs the snifter labeled A/O before Yangyang can do more than roll his eyes. It's not as good as the O he had last night. Kun shrugs, snagging one marked B(A) for himself. 

The tasting room goes silent as the two men study each other, their progeny studying them in turn. Finally, Kun knocks back his glass and sets it on the table. "Dejun, would you mind taking Yangyang on a tour of the lab."

"I mean, he kind of already…"

"Dejun!"

"Yep! Right this way, Yangyang." He jumps up and gestures to the door.

Yangyang looks at Ten. It's a bad idea to be alone with Kun. Yangyang might be small and young, but he's vicious in a way that sometimes makes Ten wonder if he really did birth him. He'll be fine. But Kun is sitting across from him, with his sleeves rolled up, newly blond, and yet all together familiar in a way that makes his blood rush. 

Ten gives Yangyang just the slightest incline of his head. 

The room goes quiet again as they watch them leave. 

"So." Kun starts at the same time Ten says "Anyway."

Ten drains the last of the blood from his glass and reaches for the conveniently close O-positive. "You first."

"They're still listening at the door. Or Dejun is, at least."

"Privacy is an illusion once you have children," Ten agrees. "Yangyang's there, too."

Kun switches to Mandarin and it takes Ten's brain a moment to adjust. It's too easy to get lost in the rhythm of Kun's voice in his native tongue. "Did you read my letter?"

This whole conversation could be ended with one lie. One 'yes, and I still don't think we have anything to talk about'. That's all it would take.

"No," Ten says. "I burned it."

"Of course you did." Kun sighs. His blond — blond! — hair falls in his eyes. "I can still feel you when you're close, you know."

Kun catches Ten's gaze, but his eyes slide away to study the cuffs of his sweater. They both know he feels it, too.

"Blood calls to blood," Ten says. It's the only admission Kun's going to get.

"I couldn't feel Master Mo. Not the same way. Not like I feel Dejun." The weight of his soft brown eyes swells; brick after brick stacked on Ten's back. "Could you? Like with Yangyang?"

There are lots of things he can remember about Master Mo. Like how he rarely bothered to disguise his fangs when he spoke. That he never smiled, not in all the years Ten knew him. That he always answered Ten's questions with another question. That he despised poetry. That he wanted Ten to learn to read, but left the task of teaching to his ever-capable Kun. 

In all the things he remembers, never once was there a surety of place. If he knew where the Master was, it was because he preferred his study to everywhere else. 

Ten shakes his head. "No." 

"Master Kwon told me why when I joined her coterie. I can feel her, a little. Not like Dejun, but like a ghost in the back of my head. She could see my confusion at it. It's unfair how good she is at reading people when no one can tell what she's thinking because of all the..." he gestures to his face with a chuckle. 

Ten just purses his lips. 

"Anyway, she called it devotion. Blood isn't enough for a bond. There must be devotion to seal the magic."

"Devotion," he repeats, doing his best impression of Yangyang's skepticism.

"Yes," Kun says, simply. "I can tell you're devoted to Yangyang, and he to you. It's the same with Dejun and I. With how..."

That he doesn't finish that sentence is an act of unbearable mercy. The tasting room's few windows are narrow and barred, but Ten's pretty sure he could still fling himself through one if he tried hard enough.

"I didn't know you'd become such a hippie in your old age," he says instead.

Kun snorts. "Okay. Well, Master Mo wasn't. That's why we don't feel him. He was devoted to a lot of things — his research, his library, his inventions — but he wasn't devoted to us."

His throat goes tight as he swallows. "Fine. He was a shitty sire. What's new? You still killed him. And then tried to kill me."

"I didn't kill him."

It's Ten's turn to laugh, a shrill guffaw.

Kun shakes his head. His long fingers worry at something under his shirt nestled against his chest. Ten can just make out the glint of the chain he'd seen the night before. "I didn't kill him," he insists.

"I saw you rip out his throat with my own eyes, Kun. I saw the way his body twitched. And then you came after me."

"I was _feral._ You _ran."_ Kun stands abruptly and it's only the thought of leaving Yangyang stranded with him that stops Ten from throwing himself into the nearest shadow. Kun's jaw clenches and relaxes in turns as he works through his thoughts. "All this time and you've never once tried to ask why."

"Why what?" 

"Why I went feral!" Kun throws his hands up in exasperation. 

Ten goes completely still. After a few seconds of his pointed silence, Kun chuckles bitterly and gathers their empty glasses with elegant fingers, setting them neatly next to the wet bar's sink. 

Of course he'd wondered why. At first, it was all he could think about. Huddled alone, in the wilds, in small dank rooms, hiding from the sun and humanity, unable to sleep for picturing the blood and flesh hanging from Kun's mouth. Chased over and over again by Kun's red eyes. But eventually the why stopped mattering. Other questions loomed bigger and more terrifying. If Kun — filial, upstanding Kun — could go feral, what was keeping Ten from doing the same? If Kun, who touched him like a treasure, could turn on him, who wouldn't?

The bite of his nails into his palms brings him back to himself. His hands are balled into fists, knuckles white. 

"Why," Ten spits. 

It's an assault, not a question.

Kun's eyes go dark. "He was going to burn you out. Use you up. He said it was why he turned you in the first place. He was going to kill you."

Ten's heart batters at his rib cage. Now that he's fed, he can feel all the blood rushing to his face, the tips of his ears. "Okay," he laughs. It sounds manic even to him. "And I'm just supposed to believe that?"

"You were an experiment to him!" Kun yells. It bounces around the room, shocking Ten into silence. His gaze is a thousand pounds and Ten can't move. Can't do anything but blink back at him as his blood roils in his veins.

The door creaks open, ending their stalemate. Yangyang smiles broadly. Behind him, Dejun looks in, guilty. 

"Hey, so, just got a text from Hendery," Yangyang says, blithely ignoring the tension in the room in the way only he can get away with. "He was wondering if we could come over soonish? He's got a tournament later tonight."

Ten stands and grabs his jacket in one fluid motion. "Well, this has been fun."

"Chittaphon," Kun pleads. "He's still alive. I went back. After. The house had been burned down. There was nothing in the ashes. A few books. Mementos." His hand ghosts idly over the chain that hangs down under his shirt. "But no body. He was old, powerful, you know that. _You know that_."

"No," he switches back to English, holding up a hand as Kun moves closer. It doesn't tremble. A little victory. "No. First of all, I go by Ten now."

"Ten," Kun acknowledges. 

"Second, how can you expect me to believe anything you say when you spent last night stalking me around the city?" 

He reels backwards, confused. "I didn't."

"Yeah, okay," Ten shrugs on his coat. "Whatever you say."

"He didn't," Dejun says, eyes flicking between the two of them. He looks like he wants to be here even less than he wanted to be on Ten's stoop. "We were at the club all night. Thursdays are payroll."

"Was that why there was a ward on our door?" Yangyang asks. 

Ten shrugs. "We should go."

"Ten, wait." Kun strides forward. There's still a respectful distance between them, but Ten's blood dances at the sudden nearness. "Jungwoo works the door on Fridays. If… If you're not safe, I can see if Lucas is willing to pick up an extra shift. He's good at security. He's done bodyguard work for Master Kwon, too."

"Lucas," Ten tries to place the name. "Oh, the wolf with the pretty mouth."

He can practically feel the force of Kun's frown. It makes him want to poke the bear even more, until Kun's just as snarling and mean as he is. 

"Yeah, you can send him to me any time, Kun-ge," he trills. Kun's jaw is tight enough that he can watch the muscles there pulse. "I'll see myself out."

It feels good, viciously, brutally good to spin on his heel and walk out of that room forever.


	4. Chapter 4

**__** _They had the house to themselves for once. Master Mo had to go into Chongqing; truthfully Chittaphon hadn't listened when he gave whatever sparse reason he had, leaving them to their own devices for the few weeks he'd be travelling. Kun, the dutiful son, had volunteered to accompany him. He'd been given his answer in a withering glare and told to look after the goats. And Chittaphon._

_He couldn't complain, not really. Not when being looked after meant he had Kun pinned to his mat, the length of him hot and filling and perfect. Chittaphon's nails raked across his chest and Kun gasped._

_"Kun-ge," he asked, hips stilling, "Don't you think it would be fun to fuck and feed at the same time?"_

_Kun's fingers dug into his thighs, like he was fighting not to finish what Chittaphon started. "What? A goat would make it dirty in here."_

_"Not a goat." Chittaphon leaned forward to scrape his teeth across Kun's jaw. The shift in angle made them both groan. "Really feed."_

_"Chittaphon," Kun said, half-prayer, half-curse. His hands roved over Chittaphon's bare back and clutched at his hips._

_Chittaphon grinned against his neck. He gave it a nip, not hard enough to break the skin, even if that's what he wanted to do. "What?"_

_"You know I don't…"_

_"Not even hypothetically?" He shifted again. Kun always had a breaking point. He just had to find it._

_His hands went still. "No?"_

_"Fine." Chittaphon kissed the marks he left behind. Kun's hips snapped up, punching an unexpected moan from his lips._

_"Sorry," he said._

_Chittaphon just grinned. "New question."_

_"Come on," Kun whined._

_"Ah-ah, you're being no fun, Kun-ge," he teased against his mouth. It was easy for Kun to tangle fingers in Chittaphon's hair and pull him down for a real kiss, but he let go too quickly when Chittaphon pushed him back._

_"I_ was _having fun."_

_"New question," Chittaphon repeated, biting at his bottom lip once more for good measure. "Knowing whichever you don't choose will no longer bring any pleasure to you ever again, which would you pick: feeding or fucking?"_

_Kun hummed, pretending to think about his answer long and hard. They didn't often get the opportunity to be like this, pressed close together in the gentle lantern light. He let himself bathe in the pleasure of Kun's skin against his. Let himself drink in the sight of him, the sharpness of his cheekbones, the mole under his brow. Fingers wrapped around the plane of his waist._

_"Who am I fucking in this hypothetical?" Kun finally asked._

_Chittaphon tried to move, but Kun's grip held him tight. He'd found it. "Me, obviously."_

_In one quick twist, Kun rolled them over. Chittaphon's shoulders hit the mat hard, but it's the kind of ache he relishes. The kind he knew he'd be rewarded for. Kun's eyes were almost black when they met his. "In that case, I pick you."_

————

The rain falls harder, making the rush hour traffic crawl even slower than usual. It batters against the roof of the Corolla, a staccato counterpoint to the pulsating throb of the Uber driver's good luck charm. He keeps flicking concerned looks in the empty rearview mirror like he's expecting Ten to just jump over the seat and go straight for his jugular. Ten just looks out the window, racing the rain drops on the window to keep his mind occupied. It doesn't work. 

Yangyang's index finger unconsciously taps out a beat on his knee. Finally, he sighs. "You should have told me about… last night."

He's being vague for Brian M.'s sake, and using English for Ten's sake. Still, Ten switches to Korean. He's too tired for delicacy. 

"It was probably nothing."

"Ten, you put a ward on our door."

"I thought it was Kun, okay?" Ten snaps. "I wasn't going to let him in."

Yangyang's mouth clamps shut, even though he obviously has more to say.

If he tries, Ten can sense more than just Yangyang's presence. If he concentrates, focuses on the chill of the magic that keeps his heart beating, he can feel the steady rhythm of Yangyang's pulse. Ten can tell when he's excited, or sleepy, or, if he's listening close enough, lying. It's not a one-way street, either. However, Yangyang isn't as practiced at tuning out the world around them, so he has a harder time following the connection.

Kun called it devotion. 

Ten rolls his eyes but only the rain can see him. Blood magic is old. Older than ritual, older than runes. Blood is life, and not just for vampires. He's not a scholar but he's read enough. There's a reason he uses blood in his dowsing — it's the most powerful summoning agent there is. That devotion somehow outweighs magic's natural affinity for blood is laughable. Ten forces his mouth into a smile. It's not his best work, but it will have to do.

"Hey," he says, "I'm sorry. This whole… thing… has me on edge."

Yangyang is smart enough to know a peace offering when he hears one. That doesn't mean he won't be a shit about it. "Really? I couldn't tell."

"How much did you hear?" Ten asks.

He shrugs, not guilty at all for eavesdropping. "Not everything. But most of it. Definitely the last bit."

"I've always had a special talent for pissing Kun off."

"Talent," Yangyang scoffs. "You're just annoying."

"But not as annoying as you." He reaches over to pinch Yangyang's cheek only to be swatted away.

"You're embarrassing. Who acts like this?"

"You should be glad you have such a youthful and fun sire. I could be forcing you to like, read and study all day." Like Kun had to, his treacherous memory supplies. 

"Yeah, whatever."

Ten sighs, settling back against the window. "So, do you think he was telling the truth?"

"Kun?" 

"Mmm."

Yangyang considers the question carefully. Brian M. slams on the breaks, muttering a quick "Sorry" in their direction as they're jerked forward. Red lights refract over and over again in the rain. 

"I think Kun believes what he said was true."

"Yeah," Ten sighs. "Yeah."

"And, for what it's worth, I don't think he was out last night. Dejun doesn't strike me as a good liar."

They're in the middle of a big city. Magic and magical creatures love cities. This is a fact. He'd just seen Kun again, a dreadful surprise that dredged up his worst memories. Also a fact. Trepidation lingers against his skin. "It was just paranoia. Don't worry about it."

Yangyang opens his mouth, but the Corolla is rolling to a stop with a mumbled "have a good night" so he simply shoots Ten a side-eye instead. 

Between the rain and the creeping evening hours, it's difficult to see much besides the glass facade of the lobby of Hendery's building, but the area of town seems far more residential than where they're staying. There are fewer cars, for one, and the block of condominiums seems to be the tallest building in the area. Ten shivers as they get buzzed up. It's a new build, but the wards seem relatively tame. 

At least until they're knocking on Hendery's door. It looks just like its neighbours, but magic leaks out from every miniscule crack, crawling up Ten's legs like ants. His foot starts tapping. Before Yangyang can raise his fist to knock on the innocuous rust-coloured wood, it swings open. A pretty woman, roughly the same age as Hendery, looks them up and down. She's clearly in for the night, with her hair piled into a messy bun on her head and wearing an oversized pink hoodie.

Ten doesn't miss the way her eyes linger on Yangyang. Neither does he, if his smirk is anything to go by.

"Hen," she yells over her shoulder, "your weird friends are here. Come on in."

Ten steps forward but the minute his boot touches the threshold, he's thrown clear across the hall. His back cracks against the drywall. He hopes he left a fucking dent.

"Wards," he croaks. 

Her eyes go comically wide. "Oh shit! I'm so sorry. Hendery!" she yells again, reaching for something just out of view. "Mom went a little overboard last time she came to visit."

"It's not overboard if there really are big bad monsters out there," Yangyang says, way too smooth. The little shit doesn't even offer Ten a hand. 

She blushes. "Okay, that should work." 

"Thanks," Ten drawls, pushing past Yangyang. 

Aside from the complex warding carved into the doorframe, the condo is entirely normal. It's not clean, but it's not filthy either. There are dishes in the sink of the little galley kitchen, and about twelve pairs of shoes by the door, most of them feminine. Ten toes off his boots and follows the girl into the living room.

"He's probably got his stupid headphones on. Wait here," she says and with one last glance at Yangyang, disappears down the hallway. 

"I'm almost offended," Ten says. 

"It's not my fault you don't have game," Yangyang replies. 

Ten scoffs. "You know nothing of game, young master."

When she rounds the corner again, the hoodie has been discarded and her hair is down. "He'll be out in a second."

"Thanks," Yangyang says. "Your flat's really nice."

"Mom thought it'd be a good investment with both of us at UBC. And campus is right there..." She trails off. "I'm Cat, by the way. Hendery's sister. Catherine, really, but everyone calls me Cat."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Cat. Yangyang," her eyes follow the wave of Yangyang's hand, "and that's Ten." 

Cat leans against the wall, highlighting the curve of her narrow waist. "So, do you game, too?" 

"We're in Vancouver on business," Ten says. He might as well be invisible.

"Cool. Like… vampire... stuff?"

Yangyang smiles at her, careful to hide the points of his fangs. "We're in antiques. Based out of London."

"Wow, London. That's cool." Her fingers idly comb through her hair. "We have cousins in London."

"Have you ever been?" 

Just as Ten is praying for a swift stake to the heart, Hendery appears. He's in joggers and a black hoodie, the charcoal pencil from the other night still tucked behind his ear. "Oh thank god."

"Cat, don't you have to study or something?" 

She rolls her eyes. "Just being a good host, unlike someone." But with one last eyelash-fluttering look, she retreats to her room.

"Sorry about that," Hendery says, leading them down that same hall. "She doesn't know how to _mind her own business_."

"I don't know, she seems nice," Yangyang says.

Hendery stops short, and only Ten's vampire reflexes save him from crashing into him. "No. No. No. Not happening. No."

"You wanted to show us something," Ten interrupts, desperate to get his whole evening back on track. Every plan he'd made for the day has been derailed. More than that. Exploded. He can still see the mushroom clouds.

With a last warning glance at Yangyang, Hendery pushes open the door to his room. Ten blinks as his eyes adjust to the darkness — the only glow comes from the triple monitor setup at the far end of the room. His keyboard cycles through the whole rainbow. Hendery throws himself into what looks like a racing chair. But for a desk. The whole set up is, frankly, just as ridiculous as some of the more ostentatious rich people shit he's seen.

"Okay, so, I didn't have much to work with," Hendery starts, tapping a few keys to pull up the image. "It was just a png. But I was able to take a look at some of the metadata."

"Okay," Ten says, "and?"

"Well, it had been exported from Photoshop. Which isn't weird by itself. When people are scanning books or whatever, pngs or jpegs are way easier to like, print and send than photoshop files. But," Hendery clicks on something and the image zooms in, "when we blow it up, you can see that there definitely have been edits made. Someone wasn't careful enough with their eraser and clipped a bit out of this line here," he points, "and this line here." 

"Are you sure?" Yangyang asks.

"I don't know, man, you think an ink brush would leave a square cut out of it?" 

"So it's been altered." Ten leans over his shoulder to look closer. "Can you tell what's been erased?"

Hendery snorts. "You gave me a png. I'm a witch, not a miracle worker."

"I'm going to take that as a no."

"No. Though," he grabs his charcoal pencil scribbles a note on a stack of post-its, "there's got to be some kind of array that could find past images. I mean, we already do something like that for ghosts and crime scenes and stuff."

Yangyang's eyebrows fly up his forehead. "What, really?"

"Yeah, man. My big sister did her undergrad in arcane forensics."

There's a soft knock at the door and then Cat's head popped in. "I was going to make some tea. Anyone want anything?"

"Sure," Yangyang answers.

"No," Ten says.

"No," Hendery snaps.

"O-kay." Cat rolls her eyes.

Hendery glares, but can't seem to decide whether to land it on his exasperated sister or the smug vampire next to him. The charcoal pencil twirls in his nimble fingers. "We're in the middle of something, _MewMew_."

"Whatever, _Hangwan,_ " Cat says, but she closes the door. He frowns at it for way too long after she leaves.

"Hendery," Ten says. He had a sinking feeling that trying to keep him focused is a losing battle. "Is that everything?"

"Huh? Oh, no." He finally turns his attention back to his monitors. The image zooms out, scrolls to a different section. "Whoever they got to do the edit wasn't particularly detail oriented. You see this here? At first it just looks like an ink blob, but when you zoom in..."

Ten does his best to understand what he's seeing but now it just looks like a blurry ink blob. "Uh…"

"Brush strokes. Those are deliberate brush strokes. That one's kind of horizontal, there's a partial diagonal, and I'd be willing to bet that's an accent."

"An accent," Yangyang says. His eyes meet Ten's over the top of Hendery's head. "A rune."

"Yep," Hendery agrees, popping the 'p'. "You said this thing was magical, right?" 

Ten nods. "Which rune?"

"I can't tell. This is… barely half? And I'm guessing it's old, too, which was basically an entirely different runic system. I'm good but I'm not that good."

"And we're back to square one." Yangyang's shoulders slump.

"Well, maybe not. My sister — Cecilia — is a giant nerd." His eyes flick to Yangyang. "An _engaged_ nerd. She's doing her PhD on Tang Dynasty arrays in Chicago. I could send this to her and see if she recognizes it?"

"Chicago," Ten muses. "Tell her we'll be there Sunday."

"I mean, I can just email her. That's way faster."

Yangyang shakes his head. "People edit themselves in text. Better to hear it directly from the source."

Pride swells in Ten's heart. He'd told Yangyang that years ago, when they were rummaging through a library, looking for a 16th-century Dutch grimoire. Apparently, he _could_ listen. When he wanted to. Ten restrains himself from ruffling his hair in the name of professionalism.

Hendery nods reluctantly. "I'll text her. And give you her contact information just in case."

"So your sisters are like, smart-smart," Yangyang says. "What is Cat majoring in?"

"None of your business with a minor in never gonna happen." 

"Well!" Ten interrupts before his actual gremlin of a progeny can antagonize their contact further. "We need to get going. This was incredibly helpful. Are you sure I can't pay you?"

Hendery waves him off. "First one's on the house."

They say awkward goodbyes at the door, though Cat doesn't emerge from her room again, much to Hendery's visible relief. The rain has let up some when they get back to the lobby, no longer a furious storm, but the gentler long-haul soak. 

Good for the rice, Ten thinks before he can stop himself.

Cassie S. is two minutes away by Uber standards, which really means five to seven. Ten would be content to huddle under the overhang in silence, but Yangyang can't seem to keep his mouth shut today.

"They're lying about something."

"Yep." 

He's done numerous jobs for Banks, and by extension the Lady Burnett-Cecil, over the years. They've all been straightforward dowsing. He had to chase a few dead-end leads here and there, but that comes with the territory. Not once have they handed him a nearly-blank piece of paper. 

"I don't like it."

Ten pulls his coat tighter against a sudden gust of wind. "Clients are entitled to their privacy."

Yangyang frowns. "What if it's like, something bad though? Shouldn't we confront them about that?"

"We didn't ask Mr. Smythe why he needed that necklace."

"Maybe we should have."

A silver Altima pulls up to the curb. Ten sighs. "We don't actually know anything yet, so let's not be hasty. We'll learn more when we meet with the sister."

"Cecilia. In _Chicago._ " Yangyang shoots him a knowing smirk before he dashes to the car.

He rolls his eyes out of habit. But it's not like that wasn't his second thought the minute the city came up. They might've just gotten to Vancouver but already he could use a vacation. A Chicago-style break sounds just about perfect, actually.

————

The hot thrum of shifter magic has Ten whipping his head up before he even exits Cassie S.' car. Leaning against the door to the AirBnb is Lucas in a turtleneck and black leather jacket, hands shoved into his tight blue jeans, like some sort of Calvin Klein ad from the 90s. He's approximately eighty percent leg and the rest is shoulder but Ten can't even appreciate the view.

"Inside," he growls, stalking past him.

"Whatever you say, bossman," Lucas says with a little salute. 

Ten flings his coat over the bannister, letting it drip on the floor. Who fucking cares. They still have to pay for cleaning anyway. Half a ward array is still smeared on the back of the door in his blood. Without a word to anyone, he goes straight to his bedroom. The door slams satisfyingly.

When he emerges, in his biggest, rattiest hoodie and a dry pair of joggers, he can smell blood being warmed on the hob. The airbnb kitchen is tiny, but somehow Lucas is scrunched up under the rickety two-seater table while Yangyang watches the pot to make sure dinner doesn't boil. 

"Hey," Lucas says. He smiles and it's just as pretty as it was twenty-four hours ago. Twenty-four hours ago, seeing those long legs and big ears in his kitchen after a bad day would be entirely welcome.

Now, though, Ten just pushes his hair out of his eyes. "Why are you here?"

"Kun said you two could use some extra security. He's paying overtime. And he wanted me to drop off this." He gestures to the empty bottle of O-positive on the table.

"There's more in the fridge," Yangyang says, quiet, like he's trying not to set off any of Ten's invisible alarms.

Ten just crosses his arms over his chest. "Okay, well, Kun was wrong. We don't need any extra security."

"Cool, then I'll just hang out here, and if something happens, maybe I'll deal with it." His goofy grin is entirely too disarming for the power Ten can see under his thin black turtleneck.

"Or maybe you could go home, and if something happens, which it won't, because we don't need extra security, we'll deal with it." 

Lucas leans back in his chair, long legs stretching out under the table. "Mmm, no can do. Boss tells me you need extra security, you get extra security."

"If you're protecting me, doesn't that make me the boss?" 

He shrugs. It's an excellent way to highlight his shoulders and yet Ten's too angry to care.

"You're _like_ the boss. Kun's like the boss-boss. Boss with a capital B. The final boss. Bowser."

There's a clinking behind them as Yangyang searches for mugs and then one is being pressed into his hands. If it was good in Kun's tasting room, it's fucking delicious at body-temp. Ten wants to scream. 

"Yangyang," Ten says, not proud of how strangled it comes out. "I need to talk to you. In private."

Laughter dances in Lucas' dark eyes as Ten drags Yangyang away. He shoves him unceremoniously into the bathroom, locking the door behind them. It's a tight fit. From the way expressions flit across Yangyang's face, he's biting his tongue, hard.

"Make him go away," Ten hisses.

"Okay, like, first of all, why are we in the bathroom?"

"Harder for wolves to hear us. You should know that."

Yangyang rubs his temples. "Ten, I mean this in the nicest way possible, but I think you're losing it."

Still, he reaches over and turns on the faucet. Which, okay, is the main reason that bathrooms are the ideal places for these conversations. Running water makes eavesdropping incredibly difficult. 

"You're losing it," Ten huffs.

"Second," Yangyang says, not dignifying that with a response, "What do you expect me to do? You're the elder."

"Tell him to get lost!"

"Ten! Have you maybe considered that it's good that he's here? We're in a new city, run by a fucking crazy person, and you have a fucking stalker!"

For all that they might bicker constantly, it's rare that Yangyang raises his voice. Ten jerks back, elbow catching on the cheap ikea towel rack. The bar hits the tile with a clatter that echoes around the otherwise silent room. 

There's a soft knock at the door. 

"Everything okay?" Lucas asks. 

Ten lets out an undignified snort. Then Yangyang lets another. Then a giggle. They make eye contact and it's all over — Ten's laughing too hard to even answer. 

"Alright well, that doesn't sound like murder, so I'll be in the kitchen."

The giggles have Ten sinking to the floor, head lolling against the wall for support. Yangyang ends up draped across the toilet. 

"What is my life, even?" Ten asks. If he were human, he'd be wiping tears from his eyes and gasping for breath. As it is, all he does is shake his head, trying to clear the pounding of blood from his ears. 

"So we're going to keep him, right?"

"He's not a _pet._ "

"Okay. He's going to _stay in our house_ and _protect you_ , correct?" Yangyang raises an eyebrow.

Ten curls around his knees. "I don't need protection. I'm a big scary elder vampire. What can he do that I can't?"

"Better hearing? Great sense of smell? Stronger, by the looks of things. If nothing else, he's an extra set of eyes." Yangyang slides off the toilet to sit beside him, knocking their shoulders together. "It would make me feel better if he were here."

"Fine," he concedes into his kneecap.

"I'm sorry, what was that?"

"I said, fine. He can stay. Brat." Ten ruffles his hair, and for once, Yangyang lets him. 

He shoots him a sly look. "And here I thought you'd be happy to see him, considering how friendly you were being last night."

"Yeah, well, that was before," Ten wiggles his fingers, because he has no words to encompass everything that has happened, "I can't now _._ Kun called my bluff."

"Wow, things _are_ dire."

"Oh, fuck off."

Eventually, Yangyang pulls him out of the bathroom. Lucas is hunched over his phone at the tiny kitchen table. He grins as they enter. 

"So, where do you guys keep the snacks?"

Ten gives Lucas the dirtiest look he can muster. It says something about how tired he is that he doesn't bother complaining when Yangyang sticks their blood in the microwave. "You have takeaway in this city, yeah? Order something."

Lucas lets the bad mood slide right off his broad shoulders. His shrug is unfairly attractive, which just makes Ten grumpier. "There's a good ramen place around the corner. You want anything?"

He grabs his mug, and slinks into the living room. Letting Lucas stay was probably the right decision — he never would have heard the end of it from Yangyang if he hadn't. But having a six-foot reminder of his ex… something… following him around sounds like a nightmare come to life. He'd let Kun speak his piece. They were supposed to be done. Finished. Closured, or whatever. 

Now he'll have the low rumble of Lucas' voice in his ear for the foreseeable future.

"Ooh, get gyoza," Yangyang says.

"No dumplings!" he yells into the kitchen.

"It'll be fine," Yangyang assures their new bodyguard, like he thinks Ten can't hear him.

His phone pings on the table. The notification is the first thing that's made him genuinely pleased in hours. "Lucas, you have a passport, right?"

"Yeah, the boys road trip down to Seattle sometimes for Kraken-'Nucks."

"I have no idea what you just said, but good. We're going to Chicago tomorrow. Yangyang…"

"Flights, I know, on it."

Ten relaxes back into his duvet nest, tapping out a text.

**To: Johnny Suh**  
[8:22 pm]  
What are you doing Sunday night?

The reply is almost instantaneous. 

**From: Johnny Suh**  
[8:23 pm]  
That depends. If someone special's coming to town, I would clear my schedule. Then maybe drinks at that bar they like. See where the evening takes us.

**To: Johnny Suh**  
[8:23 pm]  
It's a date.

————

The thing about magic is that, after a while, Ten's sensitivity just becomes used to it. Yangyang is barely a blip on his radar unless he concentrates, a byproduct of four decades of exposure therapy, and it's easier to use their sire-progeny connection to locate him, anyway. Even after only an evening together, Lucas crashing on their couch, long legs hanging over the arm, the buzz of werewolf has simmered down to something far more manageable. 

Of course, none of that matters when Lucas pulls open the door to a disturbingly normal looking house in the middle of one of the Vancouver suburbs. The grass out front is soggy and tinged with brown, but nicely weeded. There are box shrubs. The paint on the front porch is peeling a bit, but no more than the bungalow next door. It's frighteningly domestic. 

At least until the shifter magic socks him in the stomach. Next to him, Yangyang scrunches up his face, waiting for the pounding in his head to quiet. Once he'd said it sounds like drums. It was why they went to Berlin in the first place; so Yangyang could learn how to drop the beats that bounced around his head.

Inside is a different story. Clearly intended for a family, there's a formal living room, and then across the foyer, a formal dining. Instead, both rooms are taken up by massive couches and two different entertainment systems. It's not exactly messy, but there are definitely empty bags of chips lying on the carpet, and empty glasses hanging out on the coffee tables. Ten's fingers twitch with the need to tidy. 

The smell of bacon drags Lucas through the door and into the kitchen, almost cartoonish in its efficacy. He drapes himself over the back of the small, lean man manning the stove, trying to snag a piece straight from the frying pan and gets smacked with the spatula for his troubles.

"Taeyong," Lucas whines, tucking his face into his neck.

Magic rolls off the man in waves, like he's in human skin just for society's sake, even though his eyes go soft at the contact. "Sit, eat breakfast like a normal person."

Yuta waves at them from the built-in breakfast nook. "'Sup, Ten. Yangyang."

"We can't actually stay long," Ten says. "We need to get to the airport by noon. Lucas has to pack."

The only thing worse than overnight flights are day flights. Apparently there hadn't been a single non-stop from Vancouver to Chicago so now they have a quick connection in Seattle. He's already dreading it.

"I can take you," Yuta volunteers. "I've got to run some errands for her majesty later anyway."

"Don't call Master Kwon that," Taeyong scolds from the stove. 

"What? She likes it."

"It's not respectful." 

"Well, some of us don't get to be a professional bitch for a living. Sorry, I mean senior project manager." Taeyong snorts in amusement but doesn't protest. Lucas slides into the booth next to him and Yuta automatically leans against his shoulder. "Or have the luxury of the world's most lenient boss."

"Is that bacon?" Mark wanders in, his pink hair sticking up all over the place. He plasters himself to Taeyong's back, right where Lucas had been just moments ago, but is fed a piece for his pleading.

"Where are you guys headed?" Taeyong asks. He shrugs out from under Mark to shovel the bacon onto a plate and heads for the fridge where he pulls out a second package. 

Mark scoots in on Yuta's other side. Before Ten can even blink, the plate is empty again, the three wolves looking eagerly back at the stove for seconds. 

"Oh my god," Yangyang whispers, awed.

"Chicago," Lucas answers.

"Oh, I thought there was bacon," another wolf says, scratching his belly where his shirt has ridden up to reveal a hint of a six pack. 

"You're up early, Jaehyun," Taeyong says as he comes sniffing around the pan.

A shorter man trails behind Jaehyun, rubbing at his eyes.

Mark looks up, glancing between the vampires loitering awkwardly by the glassware and his packmates. "Chicago?" he asks. 

The smaller man lays himself across Mark's lap. "Yongie," he groans, "feed me. It's the end of the fiscal year."

"Are they making you go in on a Saturday?"

Yuta clucks disapprovingly at the second, affirmative groan. "Taeil, I keep telling you you should just quit. Come work for me."

"Yuta, you make shit money. You can't afford an employee."

"Intern, then."

"Yeah, Chicago," Lucas says to Mark. "I'm Ten's new security detail."

For all the conversations Ten can hear, there are at least three others going unsaid with every touch. Jaehyun leans against Taeyong like he's the only thing holding him upright. Mark's fingers unconsciously card through Taeil's strawberry blond hair. Yuta wiggles until Lucas puts an arm around him, pulling him tight against his body.

Werewolves: they have no concept of personal space.

"Bodyguard work again? You're getting paid right?" Taeil asks.

Lucas nods. "Time and a half."

"And expenses?" Taeil pushes himself up off Mark's lap to make room for the last wolf and his massive cup of coffee. 

"It's Kun," Lucas says with a little shrug. "He's good for it."

Taeil's scowl is only matched by Ten's. "Lucas, we've been over this, I'm your boss now. Go pack."

Five pairs of eyes swivel in their direction.

Yuta laughs outright. "Yeah, okay, sure."

"What's that supposed to mean?" His mouth moves without a single brain cell firing. He can feel Yangyang go tense as a bowstring.

Every single wolf looks twice as alert as they did half a second ago. Even Lucas' sunny smile fades away. A voice in the back of his mind reminds him that he's walked into the wolf den — literally — and should tone it down, but it's ten A.M. and he hates everything that Vancouver is turning out to be.

Taeyong walks over, dropping a second plate of bacon onto the table with a clatter. "Lucas, go pack."

Lucas slides out of the booth with a little salute. Taeyong watches as he lopes out of sight then turns on Ten, one hand on his hips, one scrubbing through his hair. His apron has a big heart that reads "#1 mom". He sighs. "Master Kwon is the master, but Kun is… the boss."

"Like Bruce Springsteen," Yuta volunteers. He quickly stuffs his face at Taeyong's sharp look.

"If one of the wolves in Vancouver has a shiftery-problem, they can take it to the council. But if it's a normal sort of problem, they come to me. If any of yours have normal sort of problems, they go to Kun. Need a job. Need a place to crash. Et cetera." He shrugs. "That's on Kun's plate."

"Wow, he sounds kind of cool and responsible and not at all like a murdery creeper," Yangyang murmurs entirely too loudly in a house of werewolves.

Jaehyun is the first to start laughing. The drawback of feeding this morning is that Ten can't hide the way his face goes bright red as the rest of them follow. 

"I'll show you a murder," Ten whispers back, plastering a smile on his face so fake that even Barbie would be jealous.

Taeyong catches his eye, grinning but in solidarity. "So, Chicago?"

"Yeah," Ten says, thankful for the topic change, "there's a contact there, Hendery's sister, actually, who might be able to give us a lead. Thanks for setting that up, by the way."

Mark ducks his head, staring intently at the strip of bacon in his hand. "No problem, man."

"Wait, the hot sister?" Jaehyun asks.

"Jaehyun," Taeil scolds.

Yangyang shakes his head. "No, Cat lives here."

"Not that one, the one who models." Jaehyun tilts his head. "Though Cat's hot, too."

"This is why Hendery won't stack with us in League," Taeil says, "I hope you know that. And he's the best jungler we know."

"If you see Johnny," Mark says, though it can barely be heard over Taeil and Jaehyun knocking into him as they squabble, "Tell him 'Hi' for me."

Ten's heart stops. He'd already forgotten. "I'll do that." 

"Cool, thanks."

It's not that he doesn't know that Johnny has other friends. Of a beneficial nature. They're not together. Ten stopped that train before it ever made it to the tracks. In fact, it's been a running joke between them. Johnny asks, Ten demures. They laugh. Even if he might be toying with the idea of more, he has his own past, too. That has been made _painfully_ clear over the last few days. Ten can't begrudge someone from finding comfort outside of his bed. Especially not Johnny "people like me" Suh. They live thousands of miles apart. 

But it's different to know these things in the abstract than to be confronted with the pink haired, tired-eyed truth of them. 

Ten is saved from Yangyang's eyebrow of judgement by the racket of Lucas dragging a rollerback over the tile kitchen floor. 

"Ready?" He asks, oblivious.

"As I'll ever be," Ten sighs.


	5. Chapter 5

**__** _"Ten, baby, come back to bed." Lizzie's hair stuck out every which way, her perm on its last legs. The tank top hung down her chest far enough that he could see one of her perky pink nipples. The shirt had been his first. But somewhere down the line his clothes had become her clothes and her clothes had become his clothes. He was pretty sure the studded black leather jacket waiting by the door was hers, but it had been years since they had separate sides of the closet._

_The little studio was drafty but that's just how flats were in SoHo. They piled blankets on the bed and made due._

_"Can't. I've got to catch a flight."_

_"So don't go." She kicked off the quilts and padded over to where he shrugged on one of the many black t-shirts they owned. Her mouth found its way to his neck, the points of her teeth scraping over wounds she had left there last night. A hand grabbed his, directing his fingers down through the curls of her pubic hair. "Stay here. I'll sit on your face just the way you like."_

_The first time he'd seen her, Lizzie was in the middle of the sweaty, rabid crowd jumping along to the strains of discordant guitars and incomprehensible lyrics. It wasn't the first dank basement he'd been to — the punk crowd didn't seem to mind losing a little blood here and there. It wasn't even the first time he'd felt the chill of another immortal. But it was the first time one had met his eyes and seen exactly what he needed._

_They hadn't even made it to the flat. Lizzie had pushed him onto his back, fucking him right there on the stairs._

_"I can't. I have a job."_

_Sometimes, they'd pull a third at a club. Feed all night, but never too much. In the morning, Lizzie would grab the nearest tube of lipstick and draw her patented Had a Good Night Array on their chest. The human would stumble out of the flat, head pounding with the worst hangover of their life and no memories of the teeth that punctured their thighs._

_Lizzie pressed his fingers roughly against her folds. "I can be your job today."_

_Ten shook her off to buckle his belt. "My contact in Berlin won't wait around for me."_

_"Wait. Berlin? Which side?"_

_He said nothing, which was as good as an answer._

_"What the fuck, Ten. You know that's not safe."_

_He shrugged. Nothing about their life was safe. Nothing from the caves that pass for clubs, to the people they fed on — fragile as glass and just as sharp — to the way she'd pin his hands under her knees before lowering her cunt to his face. "It's my job."_

_"It's a hobby," she said, taking his chin in her hand and pulling his face around for a kiss. The metallic aftertaste of their evening was easy to chase. She broke away with a frown. "You kiss like you're half-way gone."_

_"I have a flight in an hour."_

_"That's not what I mean."_

_Dating was a term for humans. Short lives and babies made for interesting mating rituals. It was different for immortals. Partnerships were looser. Made for sharing spoils. He and Lizzie had shared their spoils for half a decade, barely a dent in their mutual existence._

_She stomped back over to her bed, bare, pale ass disappearing under the blankets. "Fine. Go to Berlin. But don't expect to be welcome when you get back."_

_Ten tugged on his boots by the door, grabbing his jacket and giving one last look around the flat._

_"I never do."_

_——————_

"Is this how you guys fly all the time?" Lucas asks. "I can almost stretch out."

"Nice, huh?" Yangyang says from behind him. Like he ever really knew anything different. 

"I guess that's why they call it first class." He's already devoured half his warm nuts in one massive fistful.

It's strange, being relegated to the window seat. That's usually Yangyang's place. But Lucas insisted on the aisle. Security protocol. Not, Ten had argued, that window versus aisle really mattered on a plane, because you were trapped either way. Lucas had just smiled and said "spoken like a short person."

Kun clearly keeps him on staff for his body.

The speaker overhead crackles to life as the captain gives them a quick update on flying conditions. Cold, but clear in Chicago. Probably some turbulence over the mountains. Pay attention to your flight attendants and the seatbelt indicators. Have a nice flight. 

United States aside, Ten likes Chicago. The city itself is pretty and grimy in turns, easy to navigate and easy to get lost in. He likes the neighbourhoods and the different energy they bring. He likes how the people burst out of their shells in the summer, but also know enough to keep their heads down and let danger stroll past without comment. 

Much like London, Chicago is large enough that there isn't one single Master. They each have their territories, they work together when necessary. They provide a united front to the humans, they each send representatives to the metro-area governments. There are no rituals of introduction — too many people coming and going of every persuasion. Ten can fly in, do his business, fly back out. No fuss, no muss. 

It would be the perfect city if it wasn't so fucking cold.

"I got us three rooms at the Langham," Yangyang says. "I tried to get them all on the same floor, but reservations could only get two together on the fifth floor and one on the seventh."

For a moment, Ten thinks about being petty, relegating Lucas to the seventh floor. It would probably go just as well as the conversation about him staying in their AirBnB. "Sounds good."

"I don't need my own room, you know," Lucas says.

"In Chicago? Yeah, you do," Yangyang says. "Trust me."

"Whatever you say. You're the…" Lucas shoots Ten a glance. "You're paying. Are all," his voice drops, "vampires rich-rich?"

Ten can't see it but he doesn't need to look to know the exact grin Yangyang is wearing. 

"Pretty much," he answers, smug. "We put the generation in generational wealth."

"Yangyang," Ten says. "Stop bothering everyone and go to sleep."

Shockingly, it takes only one "Yes, _dad_ " for him to do just that. Ten tips back in his seat, wishing he could be back in his bed in London with its five blankets and eight pillows. They need to find this "flower" so he can get back to his regular life. And then he needs to get laid. Or vice versa. It doesn't really matter at this point. 

At nearly midnight, even Chicago O'Hare has lost some of its bustle. Customs, as always, is the kind of mundane nightmare that haunts his daydreams. The control officer's name tag reads Doggett, her eyes the kind of narrow slits that only comes from loving a job where it's okay to openly hate people.

"You're aware that non-consensual blood drinking," her voice raises to make sure everyone around can hear, "is a prosecutable offense in our country, right?"

The woman in the gate next to him glances over, concerned. Ten smiles so hard his cheeks hurt. "Yes."

"And how long is your stay in Chicago?"

"Two days."

"Why so short? It's a beautiful city."

"Just here on business."

Doggett sits back in her chair, flipping through his passport. "You travel a lot for business, I see."

"I do." Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Yangyang and Lucas waiting for him. 

"And what kind of business sent you to Dubai but also… South Africa this year?"

"Antiques."

She turns each page slowly, like examining his visas will suddenly reveal a nefarious purpose. Eventually though, she can't delay any longer — his paperwork is immaculate — and stamps the booklet. "Two days," she says, shoving it back through the plexiglass divider. 

Sometimes, Ten misses the old days. He'd known a pretty decent forger in the Camden coterie. Always charged him an arm and a leg but the work was impeccable. At least it kept them from doing this exhausting dance, over and over. He strides over to Yangyang, passing off his roller bag.

"I'm gonna," he waves in the general direction of a restroom. Yangyang doesn't even look up from his phone but Lucas falls into step beside him. "What are you gonna watch me pee now?"

Lucas just shrugs. "That's the job."

"I know people who would pay money to see that and yet here I am, paying you."

"Technically, you're not paying me."

The restroom door cracks against the wall from the force of Ten's push. Lucas leans against the bank of sinks, arms crossed. 

"What, you're not gonna follow me into the stall?" Ten sneers. 

He's being approximately one hundred percent bitchier than he needs to be, but he just can't help it. Worse, Lucas is just standing there, entirely too pretty after nine hours of airplanes, acting like Ten's being reasonable. He doesn't flinch when Ten slams the stall door. Doesn't let his placid smile waver when Ten fights with the automatic water faucet to wash a single hand, and then, after another five seconds of frantic finger wiggling, the other hand.

He feels like a string that's been stretched too tight. There's not even enough slack for him to vibrate — every emotion is just one strum away from snapping him in half. It would be bearable if there was some end in sight; he can do anything if there's a light at the end of the tunnel. But there isn't. He's just caught, held on one end by Kun and his flashing red eyes and Master Mo's blood dripping down his chin, and held on the other by Kun and his blond hair and devotion.

The thrum catches him by surprise. It ripples across his skin, making him gasp. The fluorescent lights above the sink flicker, each one fading out with an electric hiss. His fingers scrabble against the composite countertop. The heat of the blood he'd drank that morning leeches from his body. He has to move. 

Ten flees.

He bursts through the door, skidding to a stop in front of a blinking Yangyang. The terminal is bright with artificial light. Almost like it never happened, the humming ceases. 

"Ten? You okay, man?" Yangyang asks.

Lucas sprints out the door, tripping over their bags. His shifter reflexes keep him from going sprawling but it's a near thing. "Ten, Jesus Christ. I've had some grouchy clients before, but no one who has actively tried to run away."

"What?" Ten's heartbeat thunders in his ears. It's hard to concentrate on anything else. "Aren't you supposed to be the one protecting _me_?"

"Protecting you from what?" Lucas asks. "You washed your hands and then bolted."

"It.. What? No? Someone…" They both stare at him like he's speaking gibberish. "Yangyang you felt that, right?"

He can see it coming from the concern in his eyes before Yangyang shakes his head. "Ten, are you sure you're okay?"

His senses come back to him gradually. All around them, passengers are giving their trio a wide berth. The airport is stiflingly hot, heaters on full blast to combat the legendary Chicago winter, but Ten still shivers. "No. I just. It's been a long day."

"Yeah." Yangyang gives him another searching look before grabbing both their roller bags. "Let's get to the hotel and order some room service."

Lucas's whole face lights up. "Ooh, do you think they'll have deep dish? I've never had it."

Ten follows them mindlessly. It's after midnight — by all rights he should be at his peak. Instead, all he can feel is the crawl of magic across his skin and the sluggish trickle of blood in his veins. 

————

"Have I died? Is this hell?"

The restaurant is bustling — loud with families and therefore children — servers spinning around red and white-checked tables with practiced ease. It smells overwhelmingly of garlic. It's not that garlic affects vampire physiology, another myth, but it does tend to cling to his clothes. The one thing he can appreciate is that it's dark enough that Ten can't see the filth smeared onto the walls alongside the faux graffiti. 

Lucas bounces on the balls of his feet. "This place is gonna be so good. I can feel it."

"See? It's gonna be so good, Tennie." Yangyang grins.

"We're supposed to be meeting a contact."

"Yeah. We're wining and dining." 

"At a tourist trap?"

Yangyang lays a gentle hand on his arm. Everything about him has been too gentle today; it's starting to grate on Ten's nerves. So yeah, maybe he had a little bit of a breakdown yesterday, but he's fine now. He slept all day. Ordered synth from room service. He's fine.

"Listen, if it's too much, I can handle this and you can go rest. We've had to do a lot of daywalking and I know…"

"I'm fine," Ten cuts him off. "I couldn't possibly do that to Lucas. Besides, I have plans later."

"Plans," Yangyang repeats with a wiggle of his eyebrows. 

Lucas's entire body watches a server go by with an oven-hot cast iron pizza pan.

Despite the crowd, Ten spots Cecilia Wong even before the hostess leads them to her table. Her long black hair is tucked up into a hasty bun and a pair of glasses with the trendy clear rims sit on her nose but otherwise the family resemblance is uncanny. She waves awkwardly as they sit down, belatedly shaking Ten's proffered hand. 

"I haven't actually been here in years," she confesses. "But when you mentioned deep dish…"

"Thanks for the suggestion," Ten lies. "Order whatever you want. Lucas probably needs a whole pizza to himself." 

He grunts in acknowledgement, eyes wide as saucers as he peruses the menu. A server flits around them, filling water and taking orders, face barely falling as Ten and Yangyang decline everything. The sounds of the restaurant fall over them as Cecilia takes a hesitant sip of her beer. 

"So," Yangyang breaks the not-quite-silence, "Did Hendery catch you up?"

"Oh! Yeah!" Cecilia's face brightens as she reaches into her massive purse, pulling out a folded print out of the familiar schematic and a well-loved notebook. "Hen emailed me about everything. I haven't had time to do a ton of research, obviously, but I do have some ideas."

She smoothes out the image, tapping the half rune. "My expertise is in Tang Dynasty arrays, so I started there. Unfortunately, we don't have a lot to go on here. As you probably know, that era was all about harmony between magic and humanity — the geometric structure of arrays like we use today came later."

Ten nods, like he did know that. It's always better to keep the experts talking. 

"With that in mind, there are a few options that follow this stroke pattern." She flips through her notebook, landing on a page that would be incomprehensible without her finger guiding them down the different runes. "This one is usually the start of a phrase about the element of fire. Conversely, this one is usually in phrases about wood, and then this one about water. There's also one we typically see in like, your standard 'turning away evil' arrays."

Cheesy garlic bread arrives, making the little table even more crowded.

"That's unfortunately generic," Ten says.

"Dude, garlic bread is next level," Lucas says to no one in particular.

"Mmm," Cecilia agrees, chewing. "But I don't actually think this is from the Tang Dynasty?"

Her finger leaves a grease smear on the paper when she taps it again. 

Yangyang frowns. "The accent?"

"The accent," she repeats. "I can't speak for Japan, or even Taiwan, because they had their own magical structures, too, but in China runic accents didn't really become commonplace until the Qing dynasty. They started to appear as early as Yuan, but it's not until Qing that they're used by pretty much all scholars and even some rural practitioners."

"Qing Dynasty," Ten murmurs. He can almost feel the collar of his favorite changshan brushing against his Adam's apple. "That wasn't too long ago."

"Nope. And with _so_ many surviving texts. Jill doesn't know how good she's got it." Cecilia wiggles her right hand, a sapphire solitaire glinting in the light. "My fiancée."

"Congrats," Lucas says, mouth full. The garlic bread basket is completely empty. Not even a mouse could find a crumb.

"Thanks! Mom wants to do this massive ceremony which is not our style at all. Probably because Crystal and her boyfriend are living their bohemian dreams and she wants to urge her to settle down or something. I keep trying to put her off until my dissertation is done."

Ten clears his throat. "How can you be sure? That it's Qing dynasty?"

"Well, I can't." Cecilia answers with the cheerfulness of an academic in the face of uncertainty. "But I showed it to Jillian, and she said if it has ten 'petals' like this," she points to the schematic, "folded down it looks like the ten-pointed star shaped array known as the 'lotus array' that was popular in the early-to-mid Qing. It's a complex shape that fell out of favor in the late 1800s with the simplification of many rituals."

"So what does that say about the rune?" Yangyang asks.

"That's where we run into a problem."

They're interrupted by quite possibly the largest deep dish pizza Ten has ever seen in his long, long life. Lucas nearly whines at the sight. There's barely enough room on the table for Cecila's own, much smaller, pepper-and-sausage order, let alone her papers. Behind them, a cadre of servers start into 'happy birthday' with all the glee of people who do not get paid enough for that shit. 

If he survives the rest of the meal, it will be a fucking miracle. "A problem?"

"Oh, right." Cecilia abandons her slice of actual pie — what the hell even is deep dish — and flips through her notebook again. "So, the problem is that the Qing dynasty was a time of great magical evolution. With more avenues of communication, shared scholarship, et cetera, runes changed quickly. And there was a period of rapid adoption of some western runes and theories, too, among the scholarly set. Which, given the subject matter, this inventor was probably part of."

Yangyang sighs, a bite of Lucas's pizza carefully balancing on his fork. Sauce drips onto the table. "So what you're saying is that we have no idea."

"I have some guesses, but it would take months for me to ferret out every possibility. This is just what Jilly and I brainstormed over a bottle of malbec last night."

"Lucas," Ten interrupts, "Stop giving him food. Protect him from himself. Protect me from his bitching. What did you come up with at least? It'll give us somewhere to start."

"Sorry, boss," Lucas says, biting at Yangyang's morsel before he can move his fork out of the way.

Yangyang rolls his eyes. "Come on, man. I just wanted to try it."

"Cecilia, if you would?" Ten says.

She blinks at all of them and then returns to her notes with a nod. "Okay, so we again have a standard 'turn away evil' phrasing, but that rune usually goes in the middle of the phrase, and with the location at the bottom of the petal, or maybe the top, I'm not really sure how it goes, it's unlikely to be that. We did think of one that's frequently used in reference to the sun and sunlight, which would support the lantern theory. These two are commonly in reference to a path or a channel. There's another, probably based on the Tang runes which has to do with fire. Again, good for the lantern theory. Holy cow, you really did eat the whole thing."

The massive platter sits empty but for the crusty bits of sauce baked into the cast iron. Lucas shrugs. "I've got a good metabolism."

"You don't say," she says, faint.

"Are you going to finish that?" he asks, pointing at her own pie, which is practically untouched in comparison.

She nudges the pan closer. "Help yourself. You know, there is one thing that bothers me about the lantern theory."

"Oh?" Ten gestures for her to continue.

Their server picks up the empty pan with an expression somewhere between impressed and horrified. Cecilia takes the initiative to spread the schematic out again. 

"We clearly have an open end and a closed end, where the winding key goes." She taps the sketch of the object off to the side. "But both ends are curved. And maybe the key can be removed, but maybe it can't. So, how does one actually set this lantern up to provide light? There's nothing to indicate how it would sit on a flat surface without tipping over. Nor are there hooks or anything in the design for it to hang open upside down. Gravity would close the petals."

"Schroedinger's lantern," Lucas says.

Cecilia frowns at the paper. "Yeah. Schroedinger's lantern."

Yangyang hums, thinking deeply. "So, Cecilia, is Cat as good with runes as you are?"

————

"Well, that was a bust," Yangyang says, waving as Cecilia heads off to the El. "I can't believe you didn't let me try deep dish pizza."

Ten watches her weave through the crowd, coat tucked as tight around her as it will go. The night sky is grey with clouds and light pollution.

"Smells like snow," Lucas says. He lifts his face to the sky, striking in the muted streetlights. Ten has a sudden flash of guilt for how badly he has treated him. Even if it feels like he's tying himself further to the one man he absolutely refuses to, Lucas is still just trying his best. Trying his best to keep _Ten_ safe. Which isn't something anyone's done in awhile.

Yangyang tries, of course. Whether or not Ten believes in Kun's "devotion" theory, they do care for each other. Most days, Yangyang feels more like a brother than progeny. But that's the trick of it. It's Ten's job — as sire or as gege — to look out for Yangyang. It doesn't leave much room for reciprocation. 

Ten shakes his head. "It wasn't a bust. We still don't know what we're looking for..." 

"Or what _her ladyship_ is hiding from us," Yangyang interrupts.

"Or that. But we work in antiques. What is the one thing you absolutely need to know before selling an antique?"

Yangyang shrugs. "Who made it?"

"How old it is," Lucas answers.

"Five points to Lucas." He looks at Ten with the unfiltered happiness of the young. Ten's chest constricts. "And while we don't yet have a maker, or even a definitive date, we do know that this _thing_ was probably constructed during the Qing dynasty. That's somewhere between the mid-1600s and 1900-ish."

"That's _if_ it's Chinese," Yangyang reminds him. "It could be Japanese. Or Taiwanese. Korean. One of approximately infinite places that used brush and ink."

"We should probably get moving," Lucas says. "It's definitely going to snow."

When he first started dowsing, Ten had made several critical errors. The first was not charging enough. People put a lot of stock in the adage 'you get what you pay for,' especially rich collectors. So he upped his rates. Now, his clients don't bat an eyelash when he names an obscene figure. The second mistake was not trusting his instincts. That one had he'd learned from practical experience after a nasty run in with a territorial clan of shifters in Indonesia. The scar on his thigh had taken almost a whole year to disappear. 

Instincts were there to keep him alive. Now, when his intuition whispered, he shut up and listened. 

"Banks came to us with this job for a reason. Anyone can get into Japan. Fucking Hathaway can get into Japan. China, though. That's us."

"Your Japanese is better than your ancient-ass Mandarin," Yangyang says.

Ten just raises an eyebrow. "You really think the white people know that?"

"You have a point."

Wind blows down the street, cold and harsh, just to remind them exactly where they are. Lucas raises an eyebrow as Ten unconsciously leans closer to him, but doesn't move. He radiates heat like it's his job. 

"It's the best lead we've got. You have plans tonight?"

"Hoping I can catch a replay of Abu Dhabi. Ferrari's so close I can taste it." 

"That's your sports thing, right?"

"Ten you have _literally_ been to Monte Carlo with me."

The memory makes him smile. "Those were good times. Good times. Anyway, why don't you redraft our dealers list. Prioritize…"

"Dealers who specialize in east Asian antiques and that time period specifically." Yangyang rolls his eyes. "This isn't my first job."

He ignores him valiantly. "Lucas, you can go with him. I'm just going to meet a friend for drinks."

Out of the corner of his eye he can see Yangyang mouth 'dick appointment'.

"No can do, bossman." Lucas shrugs, like 'what can you do?' as if there wasn't a very direct answer.

"Yeah, I figured," Ten sighs, stepping up to the curb to flag down a taxi.

————

Johnny came into his life easy as could be, like he'd always been there. It wasn't the case, of course. Ten can still remember the day with sharpness; time hadn't yet blurred the memory at the edges. One day he's talking to his contact in New York, a bruja named Lucinda, tracking a 17th-century silver jewelry box with some nasty curse-work, asking about contacts in Chicago. The next she's telling him about a good boy her brother's cousin's ex-wife's boy knows from highschool. 

The travel caught up to him that day as he ducked into the nondescript bar, hoping for a quick fifteen minutes, pay the guy, leave. Johnny had listened attentively, his long arm thrown over the back of the booth, whiskey held loosely in his other hand. His memories always framed him like that — too big for a single space, expanding, spilling over the carefully defined edges of his life. Johnny was young, even for a human, just twenty-three that first time they met. He'd nodded and said "I haven't seen anything like that, but I know a guy who might've. You want anything? You look like you could use a drink."

It had been the very edge of spring and Ten did need a drink. The bar served their synth warm, in repurposed copper mule mugs to bring out the metallic notes. They stood under a portable heater, watching Chicagoans pretend the fifty-something degree evening was a balmy paradise in their thin sweaters. Ten was predictably mean about it, keeping his comments just between them, but Johnny laughed loud, like he'd never heard of restraint. Eventually, he quirked an eyebrow at him, a question Ten was glad he didn't have to answer out loud.

"I wouldn't stay out too late tonight," their taxi driver warns as Ten pays. "They say it's gonna be a couple inches."

Already the first few flakes are drifting down from the sky. 

The tucked away door to the bar hasn't changed, its green light the only indication that there even is a door. It was only a few months ago that Ten visited, but like London, Chicago bars are always pressed between a rock and gentrification. This one served craft cocktails for $12 a pop, but the interior was upscale dive. It suits them.

It's hot inside, so many people packed in to avoid the biting wind, but blissfully human. The only hum of magic comes from Lucas trailing behind him. Some classic country song wails from a jukebox in the corner, barely audible over the spirited conversations. He weaves through one about the Bears and another about Proust before he finally is able to flop into the booth across from Johnny. 

"Hey," Johnny says. His eyes crinkle up at the edges. He pushes a copper mug a few inches closer. It's still warm. 

"Hey," Ten says, easy as that. "Your hair is getting long." 

He has half of it pulled up in a tiny bun. It should make him look like a behind-the-times hipster, but somehow he pulls it off. 

"You like it?"

"Your roots are showing."

"Well, shit. Now no one's gonna believe I'm a natural blond."

Ten hides his smile in his synth. It's O, of course. Johnny knows his preferences. There's an aftertaste that he'd never noticed before. They must've changed brands. Unfortunate.

Lucas clears his throat. "I'm going to wait at the bar."

"Get whatever you want," Ten says. "Start a tab for me."

Johnny's eyebrows fly up his forehead. The two men size each other up for a long moment before Lucas ambles away. He's not far, just a few feet. Enough for the illusion of privacy.

"I didn't know you were going to bring a date to our date," Johnny says.

"I didn't know I needed permission to," Ten replies. It gets the chuckle he wants, so he continues. "Lucas is just my security."

"Security? Since when do you need security?"

"I don't. But I lost that argument."

"Ten," Johnny's hand is large on his wrist, chapped from the cold dry winter, "is everything okay? You're not walking into another Prague?"

Ten shakes him off, gently, to take another drink. "No one's tried to kill me yet."

"And I'm willing to bet that _yet_ is probably why Yangyang insisted on security." Johnny shakes his head. "What is it with old people and being set in their ways?"

Johnny's not wrong, but he's not entirely right, either, which Ten is determinedly refusing to think about. It's far too nice to be in his favourite bar, drinking with one of the few people who actually know about Prague. "What is it with young people and disrespecting their elders?"

"You know I respect you," Johnny says. He wiggles his eyebrows.

"Oh my god." He sounds faintly like Yangyang when he says it now. He drains the last of his cup. "It's too early for this. Go get me another drink."

The jukebox clicks over to Aretha Franklin while Johnny's at the bar. About seventy percent of the patrons start humming along. 

"R-E-S-P-E-C-T," Johnny sing-songs when he slides back into the booth. 

Ten rolls his eyes. Every fiber of his being rebels against being charmed but he takes the mug anyway. 

"So," Johnny starts, jerking his head back toward the bar. Lucas is half turned towards them, half paying attention to SportsCenter on the tiny TV. "You really want me to believe you've got all of that following you around, watching you shower and stuff, and you're not hitting it?"

"Not my type," Ten lies.

"Liar." Johnny smiles through the force of Ten's glare. "He's definitely big enough to hold you down. And," he takes another, evaluating look at Lucas's back, "a wolf? Very tasty, so I've heard."

"It's complicated." Johnny lets it drop, his blunt fingers finding their way back to Ten's wrist. They stroke over the veins there like a promise. "Mark says hi, by the way," Ten says, changing the subject with the grace of an elephant.

"Yeah? How is he?" 

Ten rolls the synth across his tongue, buying time for his pulse to stop jumping. "Good. Smart."

"Yeah, he's gonna be the mayor or something one day," Johnny says. A fondness lingers in his voice. 

"How did you two meet?" Ten asks. It's a dangerous road to go down, probably. At least it is now, when he's already feeling a little strung out from travel and magic and questions, and a little flushed and full from the synth, and a little at war with himself for being here in the first place. 

"One of Roddy's parties last summer. I guess his pack knows Mark's pack or something. He was in town for a symposium-class-school thing. Something about conflict studies? Good kid. Quiet until he gets a few drinks in him. Then he's…" Johnny trails off as he takes a sip of his drink. It's the same whiskey he's had all night, but the ice cube has finally given up the ghost. 

Ten runs a finger around the rim of his mug. "Roddy, huh?"

"Matt's brother. The world is only as big as the people in it." He grins. His self-confidence is never too far from the surface. "Don't you know it's off limits to talk about exes on a first date?"

"Oh, so he's your ex now?"

"Sure. It was three weeks of something, anyway." Johnny shrugs, unbothered by the implication. He's never bothered by implications. Never snaps and snarls like Ten does. Like Ten is trying not to. "I'm a little surprised that's the part you latched on to."

"As opposed to what?" Ten asks. He takes a long drink of his synth, flicking his tongue over his lip to catch the last drop and Johnny's gaze. It works the way it always does. 

Johnny leans back. "The date part."

"So this is a date, then."

"Well, let's see." Johnny ticks off his fingers. "I asked you on a date, so that's a pretty good sign. You said yes, another good sign. I'm paying for your drinks, which, fair, could be friendly. But we do have flirtatious conversation to account for, so I'm going to have to say, yeah. It's a date."

Technically, he knew all those things. But having it all laid out in front of him makes his heart thud painfully. People say that the signs of love are butterflies in your stomach. A desire to be close to your crush all the time. Ten's never felt like that. He rather wants to run away.

Instead, he says, "It's been years since I've been on a first date with so little stabbing."

"Prague again?"

Ten nods.

"In that case, I can see where you might get confused." Johnny winks. "Though, I hope I can interest you in some consensual 'stabbing' later."

Ten snorts. "Not any more. God, gross. No. Gross. That's the worst euphemism for sex I've ever heard. I don't know why I even like you."

"That's not true."

It's not true, not even a little bit. The bar's lighting casts Johnny's face in shifting orange highlights and purple-hued shadows. He likes him because he can sit here and enjoy a cup of synth, head empty but for the stupid jokes they're making at each other's expense. No Yangyang to worry about. No job to worry about. Just a pretty man and his own empty head. 

"You like me for my body," Johnny continues, snapping him out of his daze.

"No!"

"You don't like my body? Wow. Harsh. I work hard on this."

"Now you're just being vain."

"Am I though?"

Ten shoots him his most sultry smirk. The change is instantaneous; Johnny's eyes zero in on his face, the hint of his teeth. "Fine, you win. I like you for your body. Now it's your turn. Why do you like me, Johnny Suh?"

"Did you know I've never actually used my passport?" Johnny takes his hand in his, idly playing with Ten's fingers. Shivers run up his arm, the contact somewhere between comforting and teasing. "I have one. Got it a few years ago because I thought if I was going full-on with this art thing, it'd be useful. But it just sits in my drawer."

"Are you trying to change the subject?"

"Not at all." He smiles again but this one is wistful. "I like Chicago. I _love_ Chicago. It's my home. My business. Everything. In highschool, we'd sometimes go up to Rockford for this big football camp. Spend a week in the boonies bonding. All I wanted to do was get out of the tiny dorms and back home. Once, when I was like eleven, my family took a vacation to Rocky Mountain National Park. It was beautiful, but boring. I didn't get it. Why spend so much time staring at trees when I could be home with my friends?"

He leans over the table so he can brush Ten's knuckles against his lips. "Then you showed up. And for the first time in my life, I thought, huh. I wonder what it'd be like to travel with someone."

"Oh," Ten says. He wants to crack a joke, poke fun, cause a scene, flee, but he can't. His hand is caught in Johnny's loose grip but it feels like a vise squeezing every thought from his head.

Something like panic must show on his face because, after another quick kiss, Johnny delicately wraps Ten's fingers around his mug again. "And it's hot when you're mean. Do you want another drink?"

"No. No." Ten shakes his head. "Let's get out of here."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Mine?" 

Out of the corner of his eye, Ten spots Lucas unfurling from his barstool. "Mine. Kind of awkward to make Lucas hang out in your _studio_."

————

The minute the lock clicks behind them, Ten pounces. Johnny lets himself get slammed up against the nearest surface. He laughs as he licks into Ten's mouth, big hands roaming up and down his back. Making out with Johnny is always good; he's one of the few who knows how to match Ten's intensity, never uses too much tongue, moans when Ten nips at his neck, always considerate.

"Hey," he whispers instead of breathing, "tell me what you need, babe."

"I need you to fuck me. I thought that was obvious." It's not quite a snarl, but it feels like one. His fingers scramble at the buttons of Johnny's black overcoat. "God, why are you still wearing this."

After a few, interminable seconds, both of their coats land in a heap on the floor. Johnny's strong arms lift Ten like he's nothing and he walks them over to the bed while Ten does his best to distract him by leaving big, sucking marks on his neck. 

"You're a little fucking vampire, aren't you?" Johnny says, dumping him onto the mattress. 

Ten barely has time to look coy before Johnny's on top of him again. All his thoughts fly away with the weight of another person pressing down on him. Johnny's hands find their way under his sweater, though, and he's yanked right back into his body, desperate for more.

"Off, off, off," he chants. Johnny's own sweater, some chunky cable knit thing, had looked fantastic when it was stretching across his shoulders in the bar, but now it is just in the way. It lands somewhere in the dark. Finally, finally, Ten can get his hands on him.

With a twist of his hips and a display of his own wiry strength, Ten rolls them over. He sits back so he can take a moment to drink in the view; Johnny _wasn't_ being vain about his body. His nails leave red marks as he rakes them down Johnny's chest.

"Shit," Johnny hisses as Ten catches his nipple. His hips buck up.

"This one's new, isn't it?" 

The entire left half of Johnny's chest is covered in flowers. They bloom up over his collarbone, spreading over his shoulder, a bouquet of complex arrays that pulse under his greedy hands. He'd had most of them when they very first fell into bed; a sunflower disguising a traditional good fortune tattoo, three budding roses for various protection spells. Ten taps a spray of foxglove hiding a pointed arcane geometry he's never seen before. 

"Yeah, finished it last month. Keeps the spying eyes at bay."

Ten frowns. "And who could possibly be spying on you?"

"Ten…" 

"Johnny."

He shrugs the best he can with Ten's fingers tracing over his chest. "You know. People."

"I thought you said Matt was out of the smash and grab business." 

"He is. Promise. But you should know better than anyone that not everyone in the antiques world likes to play fair," Johnny props himself up on his elbows, pouting for a kiss. "It's cute when you care."

"Fuck off," Ten says but it slurs against the wet slide of Johnny's mouth.

His lips trail down Johnny's neck, teeth scraping against the tendons and drawing little groans from him. The way Johnny lets himself thunk back onto the mattress when he can't hold himself up sends shivers of satisfaction all the way down to Ten's core. He's hard — they both are — but it's difficult to think about that when he has miles and miles of golden skin in front of him. 

He kisses down Johnny's sternum and has to pause. His eyes slide closed, tongue flicking out to taste flesh and sweat, the molecules of leftover body wash. And underneath it all the rhythmic thump of Johnny's heart, pumping his pretty red blood into all the extremes of his body. Ten's fangs edge along the curve of Johnny's pec. He wants. It's just a little pressure, barely enough to break the skin. 

Johnny's whole body jerks.

The electric shock of protection magic buzzes through him, shorting out his nerves. He rolls off Johnny like he's a live wire. Which he is. Ten chuckles reflexively while he splays out on the bedspread, waiting for his brain to come back online.

"Ten, babe? You okay?"

He blinks, the blur above him resolving into Johnny's concerned face. It takes a minute for his numb lips to form words. "Whoops."

There's a single drop of blood beading on Johnny's chest. His thumb swipes it away. Johnny watches with wide eyes as Ten sucks it into his mouth. 

"Sorry." His throat bobs when he swallows. 

Ten shakes his head. "My fault. I forget sometimes."

"Yeah, I've got a lot of tattoos. Even I forget what they do."

"No," he says. It comes out more like a sigh. He cups Johnny's round face, his spit-wet thumb stroking over his cheekbone, the only brand he's allowed to leave. "Not that."

"Talk to me," Johnny murmurs, turning into the touch. 

He drops his hand, scoots away so he can sit up against the headboard. "I forget you're human sometimes. You're just so... you."

Johnny follows him, because of course he does, because he is too human to realize he should care about that fact. A strong arm wraps around Ten's shoulders, tucking him into a blood-warm body. "I do too, sometimes. It's really okay."

Ten presses a kiss to whatever muscle he's snuggled up against. There's not enough room to really shake his head, but he wants to. 'It's okay' is the platitude of a person who dies after a single lifetime. 

When he was that young, he was willing to do whatever he had to survive. Throw himself from bamboo ladder to bamboo ladder just for the applause. Bigger cheers meant more money, meant rice in his bowl. Johnny shouldn't have to throw himself off a ladder for him. Shouldn't have to make the dangerous choices.

"It's not, though."

"Ten," Johnny says, "Why don't you tell me what you need?"

"I think maybe you should go." 

"Are you sure?" Johnny asks into the top of Ten's hair.

He just nods.

"Then I'll go."

Ten stares at the wrinkles on the pristine white duvet, barely listening to the sounds of Johnny shrugging his sweater back on, gathering his jacket, buckling his boots. The bed dips and he finally looks up. 

Johnny smiles at him with a softness he doesn't deserve. When he leans in for a kiss, Ten lets him, savoring the plush feel of his mouth. "Okay," Johnny breathes again, forehead pressing against his like it's the only thing holding him up. "I'll be here, waiting, when you need me. Yeah?"

As if that isn't the whole problem. When Ten doesn't answer, he just sighs and slides off the bed. The door automatically locks behind him. 


	6. Chapter 6

_Straw poked his bare back but it was still better than being inside while the master stormed through the house. He didn't know what had gone wrong, but there were only two things that made Master Mo that angry: stupid people and failed experiments. He tried hard to be neither._

_He'd known it was really bad when Kun snuck into the lean-to with him, all guilty eyes and hushed voice. Of course, as they usually were, Kun's pleas of "be quiet" were quickly answered with a "so make me."_

_There was no reason to keep being poked, not when Kun's chest was right there. It was always a little surprising, after they were both sated and languid, to realize Kun wasn't much bigger than he was. His presence was so large — he drew Chittaphon's awareness to him without even trying — that it only made sense that he should be physically large, too. Instead, his shoulders were just a hint broader than his own, his body only slightly more muscular._

_Still, there was more than enough room for Chittaphon to lay his head on Kun's chest, ear pressed right up against his heart. It beat slowly, steady as its owner, coming down from the recent high. Blood trickled out of one of the many bites scattered across his rib cage and Ten lifted his head just enough to lazily lap it up._

_"Ah, Chittaphon." Kun shifted underneath him, ticklish. "Stop."_

_"Or what?" The teasing lost its edge when he pressed a kiss to the wound._

_An explosion came from the direction of the house, setting the goats bleating and scrambling around the pen. Kun sighed. "He'll be looking for me to clean that up."_

_"You wouldn't leave me to sleep on this itchy, itchy straw all by myself would you?" Another explosion rang out. A few of the goats tried to crowd into the lean-to with them. Chittaphon kicked at them half-heartedly until they herded themselves back out._

_When he finally glanced up, Kun's dark eyes were unreadable, staring down at him with an intensity that usually promised sex. This wasn't arousal, though. He was intimately familiar with that expression. Instead, Kun's elegant fingers fisted themselves in Chittaphon's hair, drawing him up into a kiss just as fervent and searching as that gaze._

_"It will be bad if he starts yelling," Kun said into the corner of his mouth._

_Chittaphon knew what he meant. Had kissed the scars on Kun's back often enough to know the exact width of Master Mo's fiery whip. "Are you afraid of him?"_

_The hand in his hair tightened involuntarily. Just enough to make him gasp, before Kun let him go completely. He stood, working at the laces on his trousers and looking around for his tunic._

_"Kun," Chittaphon pouted. It was selfish, he knew that, but there was an unspoken agreement between them. He could only take as much as Kun would give. "I can't believe you'd rather spend your night with scary Master Mo."_

_Those unreadable eyes found his again and he shivered under the force of it. He arched his back, showing off the matching bites Kun had left scattered across his skin. Some of them were a week old, barely red dots, only hanging on because of magical resistance. His own heart sped up as those eyes roamed his body._

_"I'm not afraid," Kun said, "of him."_

————

"I hate the rain," Ten bitches, shaking out his black umbrella. "This is a stupid ugly city with stupid ugly weather."

"We live in London," Yangyang says, amused.

"Is anyone saying that London is not a stupid city? Lucas have you been saying it's not a stupid city?"

The lanky wolf holds open the door to the shop. "I've never been to London."

Catchpole Antiques, lettered in elaborate gold script on the glass of the shop window, is the fifth shop on Yangyang's re-prioritized list. They'd spent most of Tuesday afternoon driving around town to the few places that were _good_ leads, and made other fruitless appointments which had required them to be awake at the hellish hour of noon. The sun was finally starting to set, but his patience was on its last ounce.

"If I didn't know you just got laid, I'd say you need to get laid so you can finally relax," Yangyang says as the door jangles shut behind them. 

Lucas snorts but says nothing. He knows, obviously, what happened with Johnny. Luxury hotel walls are no match for werewolf hearing. But so far he's kept Ten's humiliation to himself. He needs to get him a nice gift after all this is over. Something Kun would never think of in a million years. 

The shop itself is a jumble of furniture: chairs stacked on tables, wardrobes thrown open and stuffed with rolled up rugs, bookshelves brimming with ceramic knick knacks. Ten runs a finger along the top of an armchair upholstered in pink damask and it comes away black with dust. There's a high frequency hum dancing along his skin, too, like a ringing in his ears. It's not unusual; many antiques shops have magical items even if they don't specialize in the field. Half the time they don't even realize it. 

Yangyang peels away, shaking his head like a dog. Where Ten's sensitivity makes him want to run, Yangyang's makes it easy to track down the source of the drums inside his brain. Combined with his natural curiosity it's gotten them into trouble more than once. 

He weaves his way through the columns of junk without aim or purpose. Lucas trails silently behind him. It's almost become nice to have his reassuring presence lingering in Ten's periphery. More than that, though, he's another person to joke with Yangyang, another body to blunt the edge of Ten's irritation. Eventually, the path through the flotsam leads him back to Yangyang, who is peering through the smudge-ridden glass of a jewelry case.

Only a few pieces remain nestled on the burgundy velvet cushions; a gold engraved bangle, a pocket watch with a beautiful mother-of-pearl face, and a silver and garnet ring. Goosebumps break out along Ten's forearms. He knows this magic.

"Someone wanted to do some damage," he murmurs. 

"Yeah?" Yangyang asks.

"Are you buying or selling? Because I'm full up," a voice behind them says. A woman, as tall as Lucas but twice as skinny strides around the case, resting tapping hands on the top. Her grey hair frizzes around a thin face, hazel eyes blink from behind thick bifocals that sit atop a nose that appears to have been grown specifically to be their perch. Her glasses chain is a shiny gold, the only bright thing in the paleness of her being. She sniffs and her eyes go impossibly wide. Her magnifying lenses make her look almost manic. The impatient tapping stops.

"Neither," Ten says at the same time Yangyang says, "What is _that?_ "

"Neither," she repeats. "Then what can I do for you gentlemen?"

Ten fishes a business card from his wallet, sliding it across the glass. It's just simple white cardstock with his name, phone number, and email but he doesn't think that's why she recoils from the advance of his hand. She sniffs again. 

"We're trying to find a particular piece for a client of ours. We were hoping you could tell us if you'd seen it, Ms…"

Her eyes flit from Ten's professional smile to Yangyang's expression of concentration and then up to Lucas's mild amusement. 

"Catchpole. Cordelia Catchpole." She sighs, grabbing the business card and tucking it into a pocket on her dove grey cardigan. "I guarantee I haven't seen it. Haven't sold anything in months. I'm going to have to close the shop and go live with my niece in Edmonton. She says it's so I can relax but I'm confident she just wants me to babysit her two terrible sons for free. Have you ever heard of anything so dour?"

Lucas clucks in sympathy. 

"Ah, still," Ten says, "We'd appreciate if you took a look." 

"Very well." Her fingers drum against the top of the case, but pause when he unfolds the scan of the schematic. "This is Chinese. Or Japanese, maybe. I don't have anything like it here. Did you try Cheng and Sons?"

Ten nods. "Yesterday. And Li Family Antiques. And Golden Lotus Antiquities. And New World Imports."

Cordelia pushes her glasses up her nose to better squint at the paper. "So how long have you been in the dowsing business, Mr. Lee?"

"I'm sorry?" 

"Are you being coy with me, Mr. Lee? Because I don't appreciate _that_." She lifts her head to scrutinize him again, her gaze distorted by the thick lenses of her glasses. "Dowsing. It's what you do, is it not?"

"It is," Yangyang says, finally tuning into the conversation. "Ten's been dowsing since what, the fifties? Forever ago."

Ten grimaces internally but manages to keep his smile pleasant. "About then, yes. This is my apprentice, Yangyang Liu."

"I thought you two had a whiff of undeath about you."

Despite his best attempts, Ten must show some of his shock. Cordelia cackles like his face is the funniest thing she's seen in years. One bony finger taps the side of her rather sizable nose. 

"Vampire magic has a peculiar scent. So do werewolves." She nods at Lucas. "Don't worry, I'm more than happy to do business with the immortal set, though I have to admit it's a bit overwhelming to have all of you in my store at once. Quite the bouquet. I used to dowse myself. Mostly in the seventies and eighties. Retired in the nineties when dad got sick and I had to take over the store since Bobby didn't want to move back from Alberta. For the best, though. Travel is so hard on the joints, you know?"

Yangyang blinks at the waterfall of her words.

"I suppose you wouldn't know. Eternal youth probably has its benefits. I have to take three pills every morning for my arthritis. And my doctor wants me to cut out gluten. I said I'm seventy and like hell will he strip me of one of the few remaining joys in life." She taps on the schematic again. "You know this has been altered, right? There's a rune here in the bottom corner that's half erased."

"We had figured that out, yes," Ten says. A migraine is building at the front of his skull. "Though I don't suppose you recognize it?"

She flips the paper upside down, then back around. "No, I can't say I do. Though," her skinny fingers gesture at Ten's face, "I do recognize that pinched expression." From her seemingly bottomless pocket, Cordelia pulls out a small vial of green-tinged oil. "I make this myself. For when the sensations are too much. Just dab it on your temples. I also like a spot under my nose, but that's mostly to block the smells and I don't believe you have the same issue."

"He gets the jitters," Yangyang volunteers. "I can hear it."

With a sigh, Ten reluctantly does as instructed. The oil vibrates against his fingertips, magically infused, which puts him on edge, but the minute it touches his skin he sighs in relief. It's as if the tension is being leeched straight from his brain and evaporated into the air. For the first time in days, he feels his shoulders drop.

"Ah, there we go." The vial disappears back into her pocket. "L'anello di puntura might be small but it can pack a punch."

"The ring of puncture?" Yangyang translates slowly.

"Ring of pricking — not like that, I know how men think. Italian, 18th century. The story goes that some contessa had it commissioned for her husband's scheming mistress, who wore it thinking it was a gift from her lover. And every time she pricked herself with a pin while embroidering, she would scream as if stabbed. Eventually it drove her mad."

Yangyang peers down at the ring again with new appreciation in his eyes. "Does it work?"

After a long, assessing stare, Cordelia nods. "I only tried it the once, mind you. With a safety pin. And I've never been stabbed. But I imagine, yes, that's what it would feel like."

"Ten's been stabbed."

"And I would like to never feel that again," Ten says, cutting that thought off before Yangyang can voice it.

"You're so boring sometimes," Yangyang grumbles.

Cordelia folds the printout with all the care of an ancient text, following only the creases that had already existed. Her knowing hazel eyes bore into Ten as she slides it across the counter. "Better to be boring. Dowsing can be a dangerous business."

Ten swallows. Her tone was light, flat, but underneath there was both a warning and a hint of jealousy. "It is."

"Anyway, I'm truly sorry I can't help you further. Don't hesitate to drop by if you have other questions." She flashes them a tight, though not unkind, smile but it's clear the conversation is over. 

They mumble their thanks and wind their way back through the overgrown maze of furniture. Another dead end. Ten pinches the bridge of his nose, more out of frustrated habit than pain — the magical oil is still working hard to mitigate what would otherwise be a raging headache. 

"Where to next?" Yangyang asks.

"Home," Ten answers. His thoughts are interrupted by the slick swoosh of their umbrellas opening. Lucas shoots him a soft smile, covering them all as they step into the unrelenting rain. 

Yangyang stares out into the street, his own forehead creased with worry. "Uber's on its way. We've got less than ten days. And no leads."

"I know."

"No leads, and a lantern that's not a lantern."

"I know."

"No leads, a lantern that's not a lantern, _and_ our client is withholding information."

"I _know_ , Yangyang."

The way Yangyang's mouth clicks shut proves just how morose they're both feeling about the assignment. In their first few years together, Yangyang had dragged him to the cinema at least once a week. By the sixth showing, he had _Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom_ memorized. It wasn't a good movie by any standards, especially not Ten's, but Yangyang loved it. Later, he finally saw _Raiders of the Lost Ark_ and understood. Indiana Jones had given Yangyang something to aspire to. 

Ten wasn't one to sugarcoat things. They weren't archaeologists, they had very little academic interest in the objects they retrieved. They certainly weren't activists. They weren't even proper antiquers. They were dowsers, working more for the thrill than the obscene amounts of money. But if Yangyang needed to think of himself as something more noble than that, Ten was content to let him. He had enough pragmatism for them both.

They have ten days. That doesn't leave him time for any more wallowing. A red SUV pulls up to the curb, and Lucas ushers them inside. With a sigh, Ten pulls out his phone.

 **To: Johnny Suh**  
[5:28 pm]  
Is it too weird now to ask you for a favor?

He gets a reply before they're halfway back to the AirBnB.

**From: Johnny Suh**  
[5:35 pm]  
Never

**To: Johnny Suh**  
[5:36 pm]  
Know any west coast collectors who have a thing for magical chinese antiques? Qing dynasty probably. My leads are drying up fast 

**From: Johnny Suh**  
[5:37 pm]  
Maybe. I'll get back to you

It's the best he can hope for, really.

————

The already frictious atmosphere grows even more abrasive when Yangyang opens their empty fridge. Lucas is scrolling through his phone for delivery options again, which Ten doesn't quite understand. He's ordered from the same Thai place at least four times already. Expense _that_ Kun. 

"Why isn't there a delivery synth option yet?" Yangyang flops onto the couch, a precursor to what feels like an epic tantrum.

Curled up in the massive armchair, duvet tucked around him like it can ward off the incoming storm, Ten swipes at his phone screen. The pokeball goes wide of the first Eevee he's seen in days and it scampers off into the digital bushes. "There's a dispensary around the corner."

"It's raining," he whines.

"You know you don't need to feed every day, right? Did I forget to teach you that?"

Yangyang kicks out at him with one of his socked feet. "You're a dick."

"You should learn to control your urges."

"You should learn not to be a dick."

"Should I get pizza or Thai?" Lucas asks.

"Oh my god, just order the fucking tom yam kung," Yangyang snaps. "You only ever get shrimp tom yam kung, extra rice!"

"O-kay," Lucas says, swinging his big body off the couch. "I'm just gonna go into the kitchen."

The first stab of a headache lances through Ten's temple. Apparently, Cordelia Catchpole's Fix-It Oil has never dealt with long-term exposure to Liu Yangyang. 

"Yangyang," he warns. 

His progeny just rolls his eyes. "What, now you're trying to be nice to the bodyguard? That's rich."

"I apologized," Ten says. Even after two-hundred-something years, humility was still not his strong suit. Lucas had looked shocked, then given him an easy smile and a casual 'no problem, bossman.' "So should you. Maybe after you go meditate or something. You're being a brat."

"Maybe I'm just tired of wracking my brain for answers when you sit there and do nothing but mope about your inability to move the fuck on from your ex." Ten fixes him with a thunderous glare, but he just scoffs. "What like I'm wrong?"

"Yeah, you are. I'm chasing a few threads right now."

"You're playing _Pokemon Go!_ " Yangyang starts pacing, the way he only does when he's hungry and mad about it. Hanger, thy name is Yangyang. "It's not even a real Pokemon game! You're just sitting there, waiting for Johnny to call and put you out of your self-imposed misery _."_

"And you're acting like a child!"

"You're the fucking sire, aren't you supposed to be the provider?" Yangyang sneers.

Ten grits his teeth. "You're a fucking _adult_. If you're that goddamn hungry, go to the fucking store. And if you can't do that, then go away and fucking meditate. Or play 'real Pokemon'. I don't fucking care. Just leave me alone for thirty goddamn seconds so I can maybe fucking _think!"_

"Fine!" Yangyang yells back. The whole flat shakes as he slams the door to his bedroom.

"Fine," Ten mumbles to no one. He furiously wastes seven pokeballs on a Zubat that he doesn't even need. Only the doorbell ringing stops him from throwing an eighth. "Lucas, your food's here."

"I don't think that's for me," Lucas says, still safely ensconced at the kitchen table. "I just ordered like five minutes ago."

"Fine!" Ten throws his hands up. "Fine! I will get the door. I will find the leads! I will feed fucking everyone!"

He doesn't even bother taking off his duvet as he stomps down the stairs, letting it trail behind him like a wedding veil. His heart races, but it's not until he throws open the door that he realizes it's not just residual anger making it pound.

"Hey," Kun says, holding up a box. Inside, metal bottles clink against each other. "I heard you could use a delivery."

Rain drips off the overhang behind him. It's too cold, really, to leave the door open, but Kun looks unfairly handsome in his big sweater and raincoat. Even though it's only been a few days since he last saw him, it takes Ten's brain a few moments to process that he's even standing there at all.

"Consider it delivered." He holds out his hands for the box. 

Kun snatches it back.

"What? Do I need to sign for something?"

"No, I..." Kun shakes his bangs out of his eyes. They make him look young, like he must've been once. "I wanted to talk to you, too. Don't make that face. _Not_ about us."

Whatever expression he had been making, Ten can't help but glare. "Fine. Just fine. Come in then."

"Hey Kun," Lucas says as they troop into the kitchen. 

Ten bangs the pot just a little too hard on the stove top. "You're a filthy traitor."

Lucas just shrugs. "You're the boss, but Kun's the…"

"Boss-boss. I _know_. When will someone tell me something I don't know?" Ten turns the heat on way too high, because otherwise he'll set _himself_ on fire. 

Kun gently nudges him out of the way with his shoulder. His sweater is pumpkin orange, a colour that is flattering on no one. Unfortunately, Kun makes it look good. Ten wants to steal it. So he can shred it. Probably. None of his impulses are making an ounce of sense. He slumps against the kitchen table, too tired to try to reason through anything.

"Well," Ten says, "You wanted to talk. So talk."

"Eat first," Kun replies. "You get twitchy when you're hungry."

There's a snort from Lucas's side of the table that Ten refuses to acknowledge. In fact, he's done acknowledging today. Just completely full up on acknowledgement. "Fine," he says. "If anyone needs me, I'm going to be evolving my Slowbro."

He doesn't look up from his phone until Kun dangles the mug in front of his face. As always, Nectar's synth tastes just as good as it smells. Smooth, not too metallic, but rich all the same. He can hear a soft knock on the door to Yangyang's room; better to let Lucas play the peacemaker. The blood does make him feel more settled. Perhaps Kun had one single lone point.

"So," Kun starts, sitting gingerly on the couch, "The Master owns a lot of property around the city."

"As a Master does."

"As a Master does," Kun agrees. "And well, Lucas sent me a text last night complaining about the couch in here so I went through her records. There's a furnished three-bedroom not too far from here that has been empty since October. I don't mean to overstep…" he ignores Ten's skeptical huff, "but it would probably be more comfortable. Especially if there's no real end date to your stay?"

"This flat wouldn't happen to be above a certain bar, would it?" Ten asks. He doesn't bother keeping the suspicion from his voice.

Kun laughs. "You mean my house? Where I live? No. I am not offering you my house."

"Good." Ten sniffs. "I just wanted to check."

"Believe it or not, I can actually figure out when I'm not welcome," Kun says, but it's not defensive. He sounds as soft as his orange sweater. 

Over the rim of his mug, Ten can see him bracing for the inevitable bitchy comeback. It dies on the tip of his tongue. He takes a long drink, instead.

Kun continues, "I can take you by tomorrow. We could go tonight, but I don't think you really want to be out in this rain."

A large part of him, most of him, wants to refuse outright. But there's just enough of him whispering 'why' in his ear that he has to know. 

He sets the half-empty mug on the coffee table. "What's in it for you?"

"I thought that was obvious," he says with a little shrug. It's the first time Kun has looked genuinely nervous in his presence. "I know you don't forgive me."

"So, what," Ten has to look at the ceiling because it's too much to look at Kun's earnest face, "you're just going to like, just give me everything I need until I forget that you tried to kill me?"

"I mean, if you have a better plan, I'm happy to hear it," he jokes. It falls flat as a pancake. He tries again, "Listen, you tell me to go away and never return, I'll do that. I've done that. I'll do whatever it takes to make you believe it was an accident. Ten, I'd never…"

"We're done now." Ten stands so suddenly his phone goes flying off, whumping into the downy embrace of his duvet. "Thanks for the synth. You can go now."

Kun holds his hands up. "Okay, okay. I'll see myself out. You have my number. Well, Lucas does. The apartment's yours if you want it."

"I'll talk to Yangyang," Ten says, studying the floor. They both know what he means.

"Great. Just. Let me know."

He nods. Kun's shadow hesitates, but eventually he spins and heads for the stairs. When the door closes behind him, Ten collapses back into his chair. His heart flutters in his chest, blood pulling his consciousness out into the dreary Vancouver night. Only the sound of Yangyang's soft footsteps bring him back. 

"Hey," he says. "Sorry I was such a dick."

Ten pats the armrest and Yangyang comes and sits next to him, warm and well fed. It's nice to lean against his hip even if he is bonier than the average skeleton. "Apology accepted."

"And I'm sorry I said Pokemon Go isn't a real Pokemon game."

"It's ok. I know you're just jealous of my shiny Rapidash."

He can feel Yangyang's nearly silent chuckle vibrate through his body. 

"I think we should take the flat. It's not fair to make Lucas sleep on the couch. He's like, really tall."

"Yeah," Ten sighs. "I know."

————

"Yo," Mark says like a guy who literally has never said 'yo' in his life. "Sorry, someone's gonna have to sit in the middle seat."

Yangyang eyes the beat-to-shit blue Civic with disdain. "No."

"Just get in," Ten says. There's no question of Lucas fitting anywhere but up front. 

"Rock-Paper-Scissors?"

"Get. In."

Ten does his best not to touch any of the peeling paint or obvious rust spots as he ducks into the cramped Honda. Leaning against the far door already is Kun, bulkier than usual in his overcoat and yet another chunky sweater. This one's forest green. Ten wants to rip it off of him and dance on its grave.

"Sorry, Yuta had errands, so Betty," Mark pats the dashboard affectionately, "and I got commandeered for driving duty today."

"You didn't need to pick us up," Ten replies.

"We could've taken an Uber," Yangyang says, squirming away from Ten's sharp elbow. 

"Uber doesn't pay its drivers enough," Kun says, like that is that.

Mark pulls away from the curb. That is, apparently, that.

It will never not be weird to look up at the rearview mirror and not see the images of his companions. It's one of the few vampire myths that held up over time. People first attributed it to the silver in mirrors, but it wasn't just mirrors. Ponds, puddles, shiny buttons — reflections remained elusive. His personal theory is that their half-living state made them only visible to the eye straight on. Not that he's done any particular research on the topic.

Still, it means he needs to glance over Yangyang's head to catch a glimpse of Kun. Unfortunately, he's glancing right back.

Kun's mouth twists into a sly grin. "My mother used to say that we are cursed with the children we deserve."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Ten sputters.

Yangyang just cackles.

"I guess that's why you're stuck with Dejun," Lucas teases. "Or weren't you both singing those old love songs last time we hit up that karaoke place?"

Kun sniffs. "I can neither confirm nor deny."

"Love songs?" Ten asks, smiling like a cat on a shelf full of ceramic figurines.

"Duets," Mark adds. "They'd switch off the falsetto parts."

"In my defense, Dejun has a much better falsetto. We should go again, though. Do you karaoke?"

Yangyang shrugs. "I've been known to spit a few bars."

"Oh, hey, boss," Lucas says.

"Yeah?" Ten says as Kun answers "Yes?"

Mark giggles. It is _not_ cute, Ten thinks at the back of his head. _And_ he has the beginnings of a mullet. 

"Right," Lucas laughs. It's a little cute. "Well, I'm gonna need Sunday and Monday off."

"Why?" Yangyang asks.

They take a turn and Kun knocks into him. "Full moon. Yeah of course. Got any plans?"

"Taeyong said something about maybe a trip up to hang with the pack near Whistler," Mark answers.

"Gotta stretch the legs, you know?" Lucas says.

"Yeah," Ten says, faintly. Vancouver's streets blur together as Mark drives. "Wait, does this mean I'm bodyguard-free now?"

"No," Yangyang, Lucas, and Kun say, one massive chorus in a tiny car.

Fortunately, his phone rings before he can start an actual fight. Still, Ten levels Yangyang with his nastiest glare. 

"So," Johnny purrs, "What are you doing Friday night?"

"I don't know," Ten flirts right back. "But I have a feeling you're about to tell me."

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Kun stiffen.

"Oh are you going to start following orders now?"

"Why don't you give me one, babe, and we can find out." 

Johnny chuckles. "Oh, are we at pet names already? In that case, _honey_ , Canucks-Kings, Friday. Seven P.M.. You and your closest friends."

"Wait. What?"

"Nucks, baby!" Lucas shouts from the front seat.

Kun's face is completely shuttered.

"Hockey, Ten," Johnny says. "A collector I've done some work for has agreed to make the trek up from L.A. for the game. He'll have a box. I'll text you the details, okay?"

"Johnny," Ten whines. "Sports."

"I know, babe. But you're a survivor."

Ten's head almost hits Lucas's seat as the car breaks suddenly. 

"We're here," Mark announces. "I'm just gonna stay with the car."

"Gotta go," Ten says and hangs up without a second thought. 

Climbing out of the Civic feels a little like birth; he's never been so disappointed with his freedom. It's finally stopped raining, but the evening sky is still ominous with clouds that reflect the matte grey light of the city. The apartment tower in front of him is dull, a smog coloured concrete block. It's tall enough that some of the top floors probably have okay — but not amazing — views of the city, but not tall enough to stand out amongst the other highrises. He doesn't miss the dirty look Yangyang gives him when he finally unfolds himself from his own Honda-based compression. 

Kun waves them to follow. "We're on the eighteenth floor."

"What?" He whispers to Yangyang, not that any sort of discretion matters with a werewolf following him around.

Yangyang just shakes his head. "Later."

The ride up the elevator is disturbingly quiet. Just another eerie silence before a hurricane. Because that's what he needs right now. 

Despite the boring exterior, the apartment Kun shows them is modern, with stainless steel appliances, hardwood floors, granite countertops, and soothing neutral tones. It's perfectly clinical and emotionless. A vampire interior designer's model showroom. 

"The building went up in the 1980s, so you know, no wards," Kun says, drawing the heavy curtains open to show off the view from the living room. 

Ten goes completely still. The words slip out of him before he even knows he's spoken. "You remembered."

Kun's head whips around to him, his gaze dark, intense. It roils through him, heating his blood. And then it's gone, driven away by a sheepish shrug.

"Yeah. Of course." He sighs. "Anyway, we had the whole place renovated five years ago. Mostly we keep it for guests of the Master, but we rent it sometimes, too."

"Ten, there's a towel warmer. And heated tile." Yangyang's head pops around the corner. "Come see."

Ten barely makes it into the hall before Yangyang is grabbing him by the shirt and hauling him bodily into the admittedly nice bathroom. He flips on the tap, water echoing off the tile.

"What the _fuck_ , Ten."

Blinking, Ten reels from Yangyang's vehemence. "What? I didn't _do_ anything!" 

"Oh, really? Then what was all that baby talk shit with Johnny? Like, I know you two are in love or whatever…"

"We're not." Ten's frown only deepens. "In love. Or whatever."

"Could've fooled me. Did fool Mark."

"Oh," Ten says. He scrubs his hands over his face. "Fuck."

"Yeah, oh." Yanyang leans against the heated towel rack. "God, this thing is nice. We're staying, right?"

He sighs. "Yeah. We're staying."

The problem is that he wants to stay. He wants to take Kun's offer. Wants to make at least this one thing easier. But every time Kun steps closer, his first instinct is to skitter away as fast as he can. Yangyang purses his lips, his stare louder than the running water.

"Like, I don't even know what's going on in your head these days."

"I know. I know, I know, I know." The marble vanity bites into his hip but he'd rather have the help standing. One bathroom for three people isn't ideal, but they'll make it work. 

"So?"

Ten shrugs. "I just. I wanted to aggravate him a little."

"Kun?"

"Yeah."

The huff of Yangyang's laughter is barely audible. "Well, mission accomplished. He was gripping the door handle so tightly that I think he left a permanent impression of his palm."

Ten snorts.

"So," Yangyang draws the O out like the bridge before the beat drops, "why'd you do it?"

"Do what?"

"Try to fuck with Kun."

He shrugs again. "Why do you care?"

"I'm your partner, Ten."

"It's fine. I won't do it again."

" _Ten_."

"He's just so," Ten gestures at the whole of the bathroom and twice at the towel warmer, "nice."

Yangyang rubs his temples as he tries to process. It's definitely something he picked up from Ten, after the headaches started getting bad. Fortunately his aren't as frequent, yet. 

"You know you're kind of fucked up, right? Like that's fucked up."

"Wow, judgy."

"You need therapy."

"I need progeny with a little sympathy for my _trauma_ is what I need," Ten huffs. "Whatever, we're taking the apartment. I'll be nice. I'll send Mark a fucking bacon bouquet or something."

Yangyang rolls his eyes, but doesn't stop him when he shuts off the water. Lucas and Kun are right where they left them, milling around the living room.

"So?" Kun asks.

Ten forces a smile. "Let's go get the bags."


	7. Chapter 7

_"The first few days are the hardest," Kun said with a sympathetic smile. He held out a bowl, the red liquid sloshing against the sides. "Sorry, I had to put a little soy in it."_

_"Why should you be sorry?" Chittaphon asked, accepting his dinner with no more relish than he had the first two nights. It was all the sustenance he needed in one little bowl. Like soup. Repugnant soup._

_Kun lowered himself to the straw bedding of the lean-to to watch him eat. "It ruins the flavor. And can be hard on your digestion… now."_

_"Ruins the flavor," he repeated with a roll of his eyes. "You actually enjoy this?"_

_Kun nodded, his serious brows giving away nothing but his usual concern._

_"Are you just going to sit there and watch me eat? Again?"_

_"It's important that you feed, Li Yongqin."_

_"That's not my name."_

_"Oh?" Kun's eyebrows climbed his forehead._

_"If this is my new life, then I am picking my name. And I choose to be Chittaphon Leechaiyapornkul again."_

_Kun nodded, serious as ever. "Then it is important that you eat, Chittaphon."_

_His name sounded soft in Kun's mouth. "Very well. Watch away."_

_Chittaphon was a performer. There was little anyone could do to make him nervous, though Kun's presence seemed to fill any space he was in, bigger and louder than the man himself. Still, he shot him his winning, on-stage smile, sweeping his arms out to show off the bowl of blood to the imaginary audience. With a dramatic flourish, he tilted his head back, stretching out the long line of his neck, raised the bowl to his lips, and drank._

_The blood poured into his mouth, coating it like thick wine. Chittaphon forced himself not to gag. Kun was right — the soy did change the flavor and he found, impossibly, that he didn't like it. But he didn't stop drinking. He didn't turn away from Kun's searching gaze._

_Finally, he swallowed down the last drop. Kun's eyes dropped to his mouth, dotted with splashes of red, like a drunk too eager for his liquor. They smeared on the back of his hand as he wiped it._

_"Satisfied?"_

_"Yes." Kun accepted the bowl thrust at him with an uncomfortable smile. A peace offering._

_Chittaphon decided to push his luck. "It's boring here. Just me and the goats."_

_"It's not… it's best if you don't join us in the house yet." Kun replied. "Master Mo is very particular. It's better if you wait until your teeth grow in."_

_His tongue automatically pushes against his loose canine. The other one had fallen out yesterday morning. It was like being a child again. Learning the new rhythms of his body. Understanding his hunger. The only thing that remained was the strange humming whenever Kun or Master Mo was near._

_"But there's nothing to do," he whined. "I wake up. I watch the goats. I climb the shelter. I watch the goats. I eat. I watch the goats."_

_"I could bring you a book? Do you have much of an interest in natural science?"_

_The blood he just drank rushed to his cheeks. "I can't read."_

_"Oh!" Kun blushed, too, for making such an assumption, or perhaps just out of pity. "Well, I could teach you?"_

_He'd never given much thought to reading or writing. That wasn't what he was built for. Everyone knew that. But that was his old life. He'd picked this path, despite the sharp rocks and unseen dangers it presented._

_"I would like that," he said. "Thank you."_

————

"Why is it so cold?"

"It's a hockey rink," Yangyang says, "They play on ice." Ten shivers, snatching his coat up from the little security bench. "I know that. I just don't think it needs to be this cold right here."

The usher smiles tranquilly before scanning the ticket barcodes on their phone. "Up that elevator and to your left. Enjoy the game, gentlemen."

" _Sports,_ " Ten grumbles.

Behind him, Lucas is vibrating out of his skin with energy. A born Vancouverite, he'd barely been able to talk about anything but the efficacy of the Canucks' power play — words Ten had never wished to understand — for the last twenty-four hours. He had known, of course, that hockey was akin to religion in Canada. He'd been to Montreal once and seen two men nearly come to blows over a goalie's honour. But here, watching people swarm in the concourse below them, he was reminded of festival days at the temple in his childhood village. A riot of colour, but all of the worshipers dressed to theme. A wall of sound, but all voices lifted in praise. Merry, the faces of men who do not know their fate.

"So, what do we know about this contact?" Yangyang asks, watching the pilgrims file into their cathedral.

"Not much." Ten quickly steps into the elevator as the doors slide open, but it's not any warmer. "I spoke to his P.A. earlier today to set all this up, so I know they're a he, and that he's rich. And Johnny's done work for him before. Says he was 'eccentric but knew his shit'."

"Basically your average millionaire."

"Basically."

There's a logo printed on the nameplate to indicate who the box belongs to. Ten recognizes it a fraction of a second before Yangyang.

"Or," he says under his breath, pushing open the door, "your average billionaire."

It takes a moment for anyone but the security to realize they're there. The box is big, with comfortable armchairs and a full bar at the back. The bartender loiters there, bored and clientless because the room ripples with the cool touch of vampiric energy. No one here wants what she has in the top shelf bottles. 

A petite woman in a fitted navy skirt suit and sharp bob finally strides over to them. Her blouse is patterned silk, vintage Versace, the printed gold chains sprawling over her chest like she knows how to use them. "You must be Mr. Lee."

She shakes his hand like a woman who has spent years perfecting her grip, her eyes never leaving his face, her smile never twitching towards warm. His sensitivity tells him that technically she's human, but anyone with eyes can see that she's half shark. "Rosa Martinez. We spoke on the phone this morning."

"It's a pleasure to meet you," Ten says in his most professional voice possible. Next to him, Yangyang subtly straightens the blazer Ten had made him wear. Lucas nods in solidarity to the biggest man of the security detail. They're mostly vampires, but he catches a hint of shifter heat in the magic crawling over his skin. Not a wolf, though.

"Mr. Zhong is in the seats. He enjoys watching the warm ups."

Outside of the bubble of the box, the chill of the rink is even more obvious. A lone figure leans against the bannister, the obnoxious yellow of his jersey standing out against the backdrop of blue and green. Below them, tiny men skate in circles, half-heartedly firing pucks at their own net. 

The clack of Rosa's heels on the concrete is still loud. "Sir, your guests are here."

Ten bows; Yangyang follows his lead while Lucas does his best to fade into the background. If Ten's own vampiric magic feels like the creeping chill of poor circulation, Mr. Zhong's has the stinging cold of the oldest winter winds. He turns to them, his face the picture of teenage innocence. 

"I miss the purple. Don't you, Mr. Lee?"

"I'm sorry?" Ten straightens.

"The purple jerseys. They had character. Spark. Pizazz. The black just," Mr. Zhong waves at one half of the ice, "fades away."

"Oh. Yes. I can see what you mean," Ten lies. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Zhong."

"Chenle." 

"Chenle. Please, call me Ten."

Chenle finally looks at him again. "You're so formal. It's exhausting."

Yangyang does a poor job of hiding his smile when Ten makes eye contact. "Sorry?"

"Aren't you tired?"

"Of being formal?"

There's a hum from his host.

"I like making a good first impression," Ten answers carefully. 

The hockey men file off the ice. Chenle raises an eyebrow at him. "Do you think you've made a good first impression?"

"Ah..."

"I'm fucking with you. Come on, it's cold as balls out here." They all file back to the couches. "Puck drop is at seven, which always means seven fifteen at the earliest. Have you ever been to a hockey game?"

Yangyang nods.

"What? When?" Ten asks. He's certainly never been. 

"When we were in Berlin? We were friends with that guy… whatshisname. Swedish. Loved Deep House."

"Magnus."

"Magnus," Yangyang repeats. "He got real high and we went and saw a hockey game. It was fun."

Ten just gapes at him. He was well versed in Magnus' brand of fun. Yangyang, however, had never seemed interested. "I can't believe you never told me."

Yangyang shrugs. 

Chenle looks back and forth, delighted. "Oh, this is about fucking, not hockey. Sometimes I think about siring someone just for the drama. Rosa," he calls, "Do you want to be a vampire?"

"No, sir," she answers in her pleasant monotone.

"If it's not Rosa it's probably not worth it, right?"

"Definitely not," Ten answers. Yangyang doesn't roll his eyes but it's clear he wants to.

"Rosa, how long now?" 

"He says ten minutes, sir."

Chenle sighs. "I'd offer you something to drink but the synth here is shit. I nearly bought the arena to just fucking fire whoever makes these decisions but she talked me down. We'll have something edible soon. Rosa, are you sure you don't want to be a vampire?"

"Quite sure, sir."

"On the other hand, maybe it's good she doesn't want to be a vampire." Chenle settles back into the couch. "She made an executive producer cry last week. It was amazing."

"How is Hollywood?" Ten asks. 

There was a time when no one knew the name Zhong Chenle or ZeeCee Productions. In fact, he'd done everything in his considerable power to keep it that way. Kept his name out of the papers and his face even more hidden than that. And then Fort Wayne happened and the vampire community needed to prove they could be trusted. Enter Hollywood's oldest power broker. Almost overnight, the entire world knew exactly how many of their favorite movies had been financed by a bloodsucker. In 2003, he won his first Oscar. 

That Ten is sitting across from a living legend, trying not to shiver as shitty pop music echoes around Rogers Arena is more than a little surreal. It's nice to see that Yangyang seems just as awed.

"Same bullshit, new decade. Invest in TV. Or China. Through a shell company, of course. They don't want our," he makes air quotes, "blood money. But put someone else's name on it and they're more than happy for the cash. Last year's domestic gross was over fifty billion yuan. Lucrative market, despite the hoops. That's not your business, though." It's not a question.

Ten smiles. "No."

"Johnny Suh tells me you're an interesting guy, Ten Lee."

"That's a high compliment coming from Johnny."

"It is," Chenle agrees. "Why should I believe it?" 

Before Ten can answer the arena goes quiet. Chenle sighs. "I just love 'O, Canada.' Probably a top five national anthem."

"Well," he starts but Chenle cuts him off with a sharp gesture. 

"O, Canada."

"O-kay," Yangyang says under his breath. He's too far away to be pinched but Ten thinks it at him very hard.

The last note trails off. "I think," Ten begins again, but Chenle shakes his head.

"And now the American national anthem. Listen." 

Yangyang raises his eyebrows. Ten shrugs. So they do, wincing through the rockets' red glare. 

"It's just _sad_ , right? Shouldn't the birthplace of Whitney Houston have something better?"

"Yes," Ten agrees. "We were hoping…"

"Kun!" Chenle shouts springing up from the couch. "Finally! I'm fucking starving."

Of course. 

"He knows Zhong Chenle?" Yangyang whispers. 

Ten just sighs, sinking back into his chair. "The world is only as big as the people in it."

Chenle embraces him like an old friend; Kun smiles back with his whole face, dimples and all. Watching him like this, it's clear just how much he's been holding back with Ten. They laugh at a joke Chenle makes, Kun losing his handsome pout in his joy. It's so natural, so completely unguarded, so unlike the careful, worried Kun from Vancouver. He looks dangerously like the Kun he knew when he was young. His heart thumps in his chest, trying to move the dregs of blood in his veins. 

"Rosa, when is puck drop?"

"Any moment, sir." 

"Right on time, Kun, as always. Let me introduce you to my guests. This is Lee Ten and Liu Yangyang. They're in antiques. Qian Kun makes the only drinkable synth on the west coast."

The subtle shuttering of Kun's expression would be imperceptible if Ten hadn't been watching carefully. For a brief moment, his longing for the other smile swells in his throat, choking him with its intensity. Then the bartender hands him a snifter of perfectly warmed synth and he can speak again.

"That he does," Ten says. 

Kun lifts an eyebrow at him. "A compliment. You must really be hungry."

"I take it you know each other?" Chenle asks, drinking in the gossip like lifeblood. 

Ten takes a long sip of his synth. Kun's gaze is an extra weight on his tongue. It makes him feel empty and reckless. "We shared a sire."

"Really? Do I know them?"

"I'm not sure," Kun answers, voice thick. "Mo Hengzhi?"

"Mo Hengzhi? That prick? But you're so," Chenle fishes for the right word, "nice."

At that, even Kun has to laugh. When his eyes find Ten's again, his real smile is back, small but genuine, like they're sharing an inside joke. 

"That's our Kun-ge," Ten teases. "Always taking care of everyone."

"So true. Always giving away his synth for free. Terrible way to make money." Chenle shakes his head.

Rosa clears her throat. "Sir? You don't want to miss the start of the period."

Chenle heads down to the seats without another word.

"What are you doing?" Yangyang hisses into Ten's ear.

"I'm being nice," Ten murmurs. "That's what you wanted, right?"

He snorts. "Weird how your _nice_ sounds like flirting."

Ten sniffs back. "Wow, that is weird."

Chenle plops himself in the middle of the row, like he expects the world to arrange itself around him. Which, Ten supposes as he settles into the seat on his left with Kun dropping into the one on his right, it does. The benefit of entirely too much money and too many years. 

"So how is the professor?" Chenle asks. "Last time I saw him was Bern, I think."

"Bern?" Ten asks. His heart pounds wildly in his chest. He can see Kun watching him from over Chenle's head, but he can't bear to make eye contact. Not with his hand trembling against the plastic armrest.

"Mmm. Must've been at least fifty years now."

Despite the fresh synth circulating in his system, light-headed sparks flash behind Ten's eyelids. "He's in Bern."

Chenle points down at the rink where two men have skated to the center of the ice. "Let's do that hockey!"

"Ten," Kun says, worried all over again.

"Hockey," Chenle repeats. 

There's no arguing with a billionaire.

————

Finally, a whistle blows for a long enough stoppage in play that Chenle sits back, relaxed. Ten takes it as his one chance to escape, murmuring some bullshit excuse and darting onto the steps before he can be questioned. Footsteps follow after him.

Ten walks straight to the bar, leaning on it heavily while his synth warms. He doesn't actually want anything, his stomach is in knots, but he needs something to focus on that isn't his sire. His formerly dead sire. 

"He's alive," he says.

"I know," Kun replies. He leans on the bar, too, but mostly to look at him. 

"Fuck." His hands are shaking. "All this time, and he was in fucking Switzerland making watches or something. He could have at least, like, texted. Let me know he was alive."

The bartender — her name tag declares her a Lisa — slides his synth to him and quickly busies herself with polishing glassware at the other end of the very short counter. There's no way she and all of the security don't hear every word he says. Not when he can barely control his body, let alone his volume. 

"Chittaphon." A warm hand covers his. Ten flinches, but Kun doesn't let go. "It's good that he hasn't."

"Oh, god. He wanted to kill me." He hasn't had to breathe in over two hundred years, but he's pretty sure he's hyperventilating. 

"Hey. Hey. Look at me."

There's no magic in the words but they pull Ten's head up all the same. Kun's eyes are wide and serious, and so, so sad. Ten tips forward before catching himself, pushing down the mad impulse to kiss that expression away.

Ten swallows around the emotions stuck in his throat. "I'm so sorry."

"I'm just glad you're okay," Kun says. His thumb swipes over the back of Ten's hand and every vein in his body catches on fire.

"Don't…" Ten has to pull his hand away just so he can think. Already he can feel the headache blooming behind his forehead. "Fuck, Kun, don't downplay this. I owe you an apology."

"No you don't. I'm fine. See?" He pulls the cheesiest smile, like he's a middle-aged dad of four. 

There are no tears to prick at the corner of his eyes, but he wants to cry just the same; it's the same smile he'd make to cheer him up when they were trapped together at that house. Just like then, Ten can't help but laugh, too. "You look so dumb when you do that."

"I've been reliably informed that I am, in fact, very handsome, so I'm pretty sure you don't know what you're talking about."

"Your sources are shit," Ten says, but his voice shakes. 

Kun slides a pile of bar napkins over to him. "We can go, if you want. Or we can sit here and have a nervous breakdown. Either's good with me."

"Can't leave yet." He wipes at his eyes with a bar napkin. It's wetter than he'd thought it would be. Ten takes a deep breath. "I'm here for work. And I am not having a nervous breakdown in front of _Zhong Chenle_."

"Okay," Kun says, "Then we stay, and we somehow cheer for the Kings because despite his ability to break box office records, Chenle actually has terrible taste."

He flags down a clearly-eavesdropping Lisa and orders a glass of synth for himself. Ten's has almost cooled completely, but it's enough to soothe his dry mouth. It's almost good enough to calm the pounding of his heart. Though that's a tall ask for a short snifter, with the line of Kun's shoulders stretching his button down as he leans on the bar. 

"Kun," Ten finally tries again, "I mean it. I'm sorry." "Don't be…"

"Stop interrupting. It's rude."

Kun chuckles but keeps his mouth shut. His eyes crinkle at the edges when he's happy, Ten thinks. Just the idea that they're both in the same room and on the verge of happiness is enough to make him stutter.

"I… I'm sorry. I knew you better than anyone and yet," he chooses his words carefully, the squeak of clean glasses being polished pervading the background, "I saw you that night, and instead of trusting you, I ran. And I'm sorry for ignoring, well, burning your letters. And your visits. And I'm just sorry."

Kun's glass clinks softly against his. "My therapist says I'm quick to martyr myself for the people I… care about. I'm working on it. So, thank you. For the apology."

"You have a therapist?"

"Mary. She's great." He takes a swig of the synth, watching it run back down the sides of the glass. "It's hard, though. There's a lot to unpack from three hundred years of living."

Ten chuckles. Well, it's too high pitched to be a real chuckle, but he's an adult and giggling is for children and ingenues. 

"What?"

"Nothing," Ten says, taking a long sip of his drink.

Kun's eyes scrunch up again, even if he sounds offended. "You can't just laugh at me going to therapy!"

"I would never. Mental health is important."

"Tell me," Kun pouts, which is possibly more ridiculous than his dad pose and Ten laughs for real.

"Oh my god, fine, never make that face again." Ten takes another drink just to make him frown. "I forget how old you are sometimes."

"Aya! I'm not _that_ old," he protests but his words get lost as a deafening cheer goes up from the arena. 

There's the blast of a horn and then the not-so-subtle sounds of Van Halen echoing through the space. In his periphery, he can see Chenle's biggest security guard slip Lucas a twenty with a grimace and shake of his head. But he can't bring himself to do anything but grin helplessly over the lip of his glass. Kun's crinkled eyes never leave his.

Kun's hand — long deft fingers meant for perfect handwriting, flipping pages, playing music — reaches for him again. There's a hesitance in the touch of his fingertips to the back of Ten's wrist. Nothing like the confident way he had once gripped his hips. Blood surges to his extremities, hot and urgent. 

"Chittaphon," Kun breathes.

"Gross." Yangyang's voice cuts through the moment. "It's like watching Discovery Channel after dark or something."

Ten leans back, blinking. He's not entirely sure how they got so close. "What do you need, Yangyang?"

He grins, flashing a hint of fang the way he does when he knows he's being a shit. "Not me. Our host was wondering where Kun had gone. Apparently, he's good luck."

"Ah, duty calls," Kun says with a wry smile and a final tap to Ten's wrist. 

There's no pretending Ten doesn't savor the lean shape of him as he makes his way back down to the seats. Yangyang eyes him carefully as Lisa starts on a fresh drink. "So _nice,_ Ten-ge."

"We had a lot to discuss," Ten says pinching his side. The blazer protects his arm enough that Yangyang doesn't even flinch.

"I bet you did," he replies with a leer. And then softer, "are you okay? Like for real?"

Ten ruffles his hair and for once Yangyang lets him. "Yeah. I'm good. We're good."

" _Good_ ," Yangyang says. "Is that what we're calling it these days."

————

The Kings tie things up with two minutes left in the first period, Chenle jumping out of his seat like a buoy in his yellow jersey. He shakes Kun by the shoulders as they pile into the lounge for intermission.

"What did I tell you!" Chenle crows. "Didn't I tell you, Rosa, that this man is good luck?"

"You did, sir." Rosa does not look up from her phone. 

"It's all in the name," Chenle says, pulling Kun onto the couch with him. "Move to Los Angeles with me. Bring me fame and fortune."

"You already have fame and fortune," Kun points out.

Chenle narrows his eyes at him but then throws his head back in a full-body laugh. "That's true. That's true. Plus, Los Angeles is terrible. Sunny all the time. And the industry is worse. When I arrived there as a young immigrant boy just trying to make his way in the world…"

Ten snorts. "You're older than all of us combined."

It's his turn to feel the force of Chenle's stare. The weight of age makes him want to squirm, but Ten knows this game too well. Zhong Chenle isn't his first elder vampire nor his first billionaire. 

Finally, Chenle smiles, accepting the glass of synth Rosa presses into his hand. "Is this a special dowser skill? Guessing age like it's a carnival game?"

"No," Ten says at the same time Yangyang says "Yes."

"I don't believe in modesty, Ten Lee," Chenle says.

Yangyang nods. "Ten's good with our ages. And teasing out the different threads of magic, too. It's harder for me."

"Now who's being modest? Yangyang's specialty is tracking," Ten says. "He's like a magical bloodhound."

The tips of Yangyang's ears go pink with praise. They don't talk about it a lot — or ever, really — but he has come a long way in training his sensitivity. Ten resolves then and there to be better about it. Even little bastards need to know when they're doing a good job.

Chenle smiles. "You must make a formidable team."

"The best," Yangyang answers.

"According to?" Chenle asks, like Yangyang is pitching him a TV show.

"Our rates." Ten smirks and pulls his card from his wallet. Chenle picks it up, scanning it briefly. He passes it off to a Rosa who appears magically at his shoulder like she'd popped out of his shadow. "Call us next time you need something found."

"I don't know what Johnny told you, but my collection tends to be a little more mundane." He gestures with his glass. "Art, mostly. A little sculpture. Rosa's pushing me to branch out into modern artists, too."

The printout is starting to lose its integrity at the edges, but Ten does his best to smooth it out on the table between them. "That's okay. We didn't expect you to own this. However, we were hoping you might know who would enjoy a piece like this in their collection."

Chenle hums, studying the image. Next to him, Kun goes still. 

"Our best guess is that it's probably early-to-mid Qing Dynasty," Ten continues. "The client thinks it's a lantern."

"It's not a lantern." Kun's steady voice cracks.

"Yeah," Yangyang says, "We've had our doubts about that, too."

"No." He rubs unconsciously at something under his shirt, right over his ribs. Probably the pendant he was wearing the other day; Ten can see the same chain around Kun's neck. "It's not a lantern. I don't know what it is but it's not a lantern. Ten…"

Magic skitters across his skin deep and cool. Kun keeps talking but he can't hear him over the pounding of his sudden migraine. The arena goes black.

"Oh, fuck," Ten breathes. He's a vampire, his night vision is flawless, but there's nothing in front of his eyes but inky darkness. "Yangyang?"

A hand finds his, prying his fingers up where they've clawed into the armrest. Yangyang's voice sounds smothered, like it's swimming through a pool of oil. "Ten, are you okay? What's happening? Ten?"

All around him, the dark wobbles, pulling at the hair on his arms until it's standing straight up. The magic pulses along to some steady heartbeat. He wants to run but he can't stand. Can't see. This isn't the blackness he knows so well. 

"I'm going to go call an Uber," Yangyang says. The words float up through the syrup surrounding him. "I'm sorry Mr. Zhong."

"Go, we'll finish this over email. You get better signal outside."

The edges of his vision lighten just enough that he can see people moving. The pounding in his head eases, though as he blinks, pain still sparks along his brow. 

"Ten, can you hear me?" Kun is over-loud, concerned. 

"Yeah. Don't shout." 

Colours return slowly, fuzzy and muted, but he can see the red of the synth on the table, the crisp black of the bodyguards' suits as they put themselves between Chenle and Ten. Snatches of Chenle's yellow and purple jersey bleed through the gaps. Ten lurches to his feet.

Lucas catches him before he can collapse again. "Hey, bossman, let's take it easy."

Every second, the world gets brighter and brighter until the colour and light are too much for his aching brain. "I need air."

Kun nods, which is the confirmation Lucas needs to start steering Ten away. "Go wait with Yangyang. I'll be right behind."

His stomach lurches in the elevator. The concourse below them is a cacophony of Canuck's fans. His head swims. He's jittery, his skin jumping at the slightest brush of Lucas' hand. Even his own clothes itch. The minute he spots an exterior door he changes course and heads straight for it. 

"The Uber pickup is downstairs," Lucas says, but he's right behind. 

"I don't care." Everything is too close. Too bright. Too loud.

The first touch of night air is a cooling balm on his skin. The sidewalk is blissfully empty of people; nothing but the muted sounds of the arena music and the ubiquitous traffic noise. Ten tips his head back, letting the drizzle accumulate on the hollows of his eyes and cling to his chin. It drips down his neck and under the collar of his button down. There aren't any stars to see, not with the cloud cover, but there's a sense of relief, still, in knowing they're there. 

"What was that?" Lucas asks.

Ten shakes his head. It throbs. Every single nerve in his body has been dialed up to one hundred. "I have no idea."

All the warning they get is a flash of pale blue. An array at their feet whirls to life, runes lighting up against the damp concrete. Electricity surges through his body, his muscles spasming. Lucas' gasp gets cut short as he's caught up in the magic, too. They collapse, panting, clothes smoking in the cold air. The street lights do their job too well — there isn't even the tiniest sliver of darkness to reach. Lucas kicks him, an involuntary twitch as he tries to move; the array lighting up again. 

Out of the corner of his eye he sees a figure peel away from the shadows. His heart judders to a stop.

He's going to die.


	8. Chapter 8

_"This is for you," Ten said in his stilted German, holding out the mug. A cranky alligator wrapped itself around the handle. The mug came with the one-bedroom apartment, the best he could find on such short notice. He switched to Mandarin. That seemed to go better for them both. "I had to throw some salt in, so it won't taste great, but at least it won't be lumpy."_

_The youth took the cup, staring down at warm blood. "Is this how you live?"_

_His words had a slight lisp where they whistled through the gaps left by his human canines._

_"No," Ten answered honestly. "The first few weeks are the worst. After that, you can feed properly."_

_"On people."_

_Ten shrugged. The youth — Yangyang, his name was Liu Yangyang — cursed under his breath, slipping back into German. "This is so messed up."_

_"If you don't drink, you won't heal," Ten said. The little room was sparsely decorated; just Yangyang's single bed, a rickety desk, and a wooden chair that was made by someone's Opa. The desk groaned as he leaned against it. "Do what you want."_

_He took a drink with an oversized grimace. But he remembered his Mandarin. "There are no better options than salty cow's blood?"_

_"You could drink from me. But until you get your teeth… " Ten shrugged again. "And it's pig."_

_Yangyang's nose wrinkled. "No thanks. You're not my type."_

_That made him laugh, finally. "Whatever you say, young master. When you're my age you won't care what kind of genitals you're rubbing off on."_

_"How old are you?" Yangyang asked. He took another drink with far fewer dramatics._

_"That's at least a third date question."_

_"I'm pretty sure that swapping bodily fluids counts as at least two dates."_

_"God, you're a brat, aren't you?"_

_Yangyang smiled with his whole body, unrepentant and only slightly ridiculous with his missing teeth. The wave of fondness that crashed over him caught Ten wholly by surprise. He sighed. "What year is it? Don't give me that look."_

_"Nineteen eighty-four."_

_"Like the book."_

_"Huh?"_

_Ten shook his head. "Oh we have got to get you out from behind the curtain. If it's eighty-four then," he did the quick math, "just over two hundred."_

_"Really?"_

_"Probably. We didn't exactly record every birth in my village."_

_Yangyang took another drink, cradling the mug in his hands. "Is it weird?"_

_"Is what weird?"_

_"Being so old."_

_Ten closed his eyes. Already he could feel the tiny pulse of Yangyang's heartbeat echoing in his chest. He remembered his own turning, remembered the smell of the goats, remembered the scratch of straw on his back. It wasn't like this though — he was alone in his veins. At least until…_

_"The advantage of immortality is that you have time to adapt to any number of weird things." He reached out, ruffling Yangyang's hair even as the young man protested. "Finish your blood. We can go see if there's a bar showing that race tonight."_

————

Steps echo across the damp pavement as the figure grows closer. Lucas growls softly next to him, electricity sparking across his torso as he pushes himself up and collapses back as the array electrocutes them both over and over. His own body, however, refuses to move. It is as if his muscles remember the old days, the bamboo canes, that the only way to make the pain go away is to endure it until it stops. His mind flits from thought to thought like a caged bat in a frenzy, never able to land on one, just pounding against the bars of his migraine and the chill of old magic.

The footsteps draw closer. Lucas's nails lengthen into claws, fur sprouting across the back of his hand, white and soft-looking. Like a cat. A cat-wolf. A giggle escapes Ten. His brain-bat finds all of this hilarious. On his next attempt Lucas struggles to his knees before the array brings him down. Ten can hear his clothes bursting at the seams as he transforms. It sounds like those tiny fireworks children throw on the ground. 

There's a door and then more footsteps, sprinting. And a shout. The voice reaches out, magic worming into his ears, whispering, "Blood, Chittaphon, use blood."

It's a good idea. It's the only thing he can think about. His hand is right there. The electricity courses through him for the few inches it takes to bring it to his mouth. He sinks his fangs into the meat of his palm, the sting of it sharpening his thoughts. The rune he smears on the ground is rough, shaky. Lucas convulses next to him. Blood drips down his wrist. He dots the final accent with two fingers. The blue light rises again, blinding, then fizzles out. 

Two sets of footsteps run — one towards them, one away.

All Ten can do is cough up blood and roll on to his back. With a growl, Lucas shakes himself and springs to his feet. The high pain tolerance almost makes Ten wish he were a shifter sometimes. 

"Go! I've got him," Kun orders.

Lucas sprints off into the night like a greyhound at the races.

"I guess you are the boss," Ten chokes out.

Dropping to his knees, Kun definitely does not laugh. Instead he runs sure hands over Ten's stomach and up his chest. "Are you okay? Any wounds?"

"My pride. Stop that." He bats ineffectually at Kun's poking and prodding. "Best dowser in the world…"

Kun does chuckle at that.

"Best dowser in the world, and I walk right into a trap." Ten pushes himself up by his elbows. Everything aches so badly that he doesn't try to resist when Kun helps him to his feet. 

"Do you know who?"

Ten shakes his head, wincing. The array is gone, but there are black smudges where the runes had to be. The drizzle is already dissolving his red countermeasure. He pulls out his phone and snaps a few pictures. Maybe tomorrow, when he can think without the orchestra in his skull, they might provide a clue.

"Hey, come here for a second," Kun says.

"I've got to call Yangyang."

"I know but…" He doesn't bother finishing the sentence, just gently grabs Ten's blood covered arm and starts dabbing at it with his scarf. 

The droplets cling to the fuzzy fibers, dark against the carmel wool. Ten can't look away. He's pale — paler than usual — with the strain that his body's been through. Kun's fingers, flush with blood, life, practically glow against his skin. He wraps Ten's hand deftly, tucking the ends of the scarf to keep it secure.

"You can't get blood out of cashmere," Ten says, for lack of anything better.

Kun shrugs. "Okay."

"I lost him," Lucas calls, human again.

He jogs back to them and saves Ten from trying to sort through his words. He's fluent in English, Mandarin, Japanese, Thai, French, and a smattering of other languages but when Kun looks at him with his soft eyes they all float away. "He got into a van around the corner and peeled away. I couldn't get the plates."

"Did you get _anything_?" Kun asks, harsher than Ten's heard him in centuries.

Lucas' phantom tail tucks firmly between his legs. "He smelled dead. Sorry, like a vampire. And expensive. His cologne, I mean. I think it was Dior or something."

"Hey," Ten says, tottering over to pat his shoulder, "this is my fault. I should've felt it coming."

"No offense, Ten, but you could barely stand," Lucas replies. "My job is to keep you safe."

Kun's jaw is tight. Ten recognizes his no-fucking-around face immediately. "We can talk about it when we're somewhere that isn't the middle of the street. Lucas, get Yangyang and the car up here ASAP."

————

Water sluices over Ten's body. Five minutes ago it was hot, but he's been in the shower so long it's turned to lukewarm and is cooling rapidly. It sucks for their neighbours. He's been in the shower so long that Yangyang would definitely accuse him of hiding if he wasn't too busy hovering, hands fluttering like some sort of aggrieved auntie. 

His body is sore all over but the bruises on his knees are already fading. The bite on his palm, though, will take longer to heal. It's a messy one, purple around the edges and deeper than he'd ever make in his right mind. He'll need to change his plasters often; vampire saliva has natural anticoagulants.

Ten sighs and turns off the water. He can feel them moving around the living room. That's another thing to sort through; over the last few days he can feel his connection to Kun flaring back to life, his blood running hot, gravitating to his presence. It makes it difficult to separate their past from anything between them now. Kun was the person he knew best in the world, but...

But Ten _doesn't_ know him anymore. What is fifty years of history to two hundred years apart? What good is attraction when he can't tell if it's nothing more than his memories haunting him?

If he were dating Johnny, he wouldn't have to think about this. It would be nice and safe and comfortable. And someone else would finally touch his goddamn dick.He resolutely does not think about the other host of problems dating a human would bring as he towels himself off.

Yangyang has somehow piled every blanket in the house on the couch. He springs up as Ten shuffles in. "Do you want something to drink? I'm going to make something to drink."

"Thank you," Ten says, even though he's not hungry at all. The synth will help him heal at least. 

He burrows into Yangyang's nest, refusing to look Kun in the eye. Warding magic buzzes along his skin. It was the first thing Kun had insisted upon when they got back to the flat and Ten had been too tired to fight back. Already, he can feel the headache building between his eyes.

"So." Kun sounds no less tense than he had an hour ago. Maybe he's the one who needs a hot shower. "Someone tried to kill you tonight."

"Really? I had forgotten."

" _Ten._ This is serious."

Ten waves him off. Or tries to, but the blanket mutes the insouciance of the gesture. "You think everything is serious."

A muscle in Kun's jaw jumps. 

"Can you think of anyone who might want to hurt you?" Lucas asks gently. "Anyone at all?"

"No," Ten answers. "Other than the business, we keep mostly to ourselves. Isn't that right, Yangyang?"

"Yeah," he confirms, handing off a mug of synth. It's obviously microwaved, but at least it's O.

Kun frowns. "No one from your past?"

"Other than you?"

"That wasn't on purpose!" Kun protests. 

Ten grins. There's a delicious thrill in having Kun's glare pointed directly at him.

"What about Aleš?" Yangyang interrupts.

"Aleš, the Master of Prague, Aleš?" Kun asks.

"I doubt it," Ten says. 

"He did try to kill you," Yangyang points out over the rim of his own mug. It's cream, with a little flair to the handle, matching the one in Ten's hands and the rest of the ceramic dishes in the cupboard. 

"The Master of Prague tried to kill you and you didn't tell us until now," Kun says, throwing his hands in the air. "Ten, we're trying to keep you safe!"

"I mean, I knew," Lucas says, which is decidedly not helpful.

Kun almost growls like he's the wolf. "You knew _._ "

"Guys!" Ten shouts. "I'm safe. I'm fine. It wasn't Aleš. This isn't his M.O. at all. First of all, he would never leave his city. Second, that was a misunderstanding."

"He hired an assassin," Yangyang says. "Assassins travel."

"He hired an assassin!" Kun's voice goes exceedingly high pitched.

"It was a _misunderstanding_ ," Ten repeats.

"Oh, so we forgive the man who hired an assassin," Kun mumbles.

Ten fixes him with his most cutting side eye. "Well, I saw that one coming."

"Didn't he stab you?" Lucas asks. 

"Not the point!" Ten huffs. "It was the nineties."

"Okay," Yangyang says, heading off what looks like another argument. "Let's review what we know. First, Ten has one of his… episodes. I go downstairs to call the Uber."

"Ten and I head for the exit but we don't make it all the way downstairs," Lucas adds.

"I wanted out," Ten adds. "My head hurt so badly. I couldn't feel anything else."

"I was too focused on keeping him upright," Lucas says. "I wasn't as alert as I should've been."

Kun reaches over and squeezes his thigh. "It's okay. There was a lot of chaos."

Lucas' grateful smile doesn't reach his eyes.

"The array activated after we crossed the threshold. I think it was pretty large," Ten continues, digging out his phone. "Yangyang, do you recognize any of these runes? My brain is fried."

Kun's eyebrows fly up his head.

"Poor word choice," Ten says. 

Yangyang swipes through the pictures, humming to himself.

"Remote activation? Timed? Triggered?" Kun asks.

Ten sighs. "Triggered would be difficult in a public place. Unless they had something of mine — blood, hair, et cetera. But then I might not have been able to diffuse it."

Lucas frowns. "Boss, did you get a look at him? Or her. Them."

"No, not really. I was kind of focused on," his eyes find Ten's, but he looks down at his hands quickly, "the array."

"Ten?" Yangyang leans over to show him the phone. "This one is pretty obviously a lightning signifier, but this one here. It's kind of smudged but isn't it a limiter?"

"Huh. Yeah. I think so."

Kun scrubs his hands through his hair. It falls awkwardly into his eyes and Ten vividly remembers a lifetime of brushing it away. "So what do we have? Lucas?"

"Vampire. Wears Dior. Had at least one accomplice driving the van."

"Wait." Ten sits up straight. "You're sure it was a van?"

Lucas nods. "Tall one. Grey, I think. Kind of like the Amazon trucks. Didn't see any logos, though."

"I don't think it was an assassination." All three of them turn to look at him. "I think it was a kidnapping."

"Well, fuck," Yangyang says. 

The curse hangs in the air, the four of them unsure what to do. Ten slumps back into the blankets. While he wouldn't say he has many enemies, picking out people who may want him dead for one petty reason or another is not an impossible task. But someone who would want to kidnap him? That's a level of deranged he can't remember meeting. His head throbs.

"Ten," Kun finally says, "Can I talk to you alone for a minute?"

"Can it wait?"

Kun shakes his head and heads down the hall to the bedrooms like he just expects to be followed. The boss-boss. For a moment, Ten's contrarian nature rears its head but all the fight has been sucked out of him. Shedding all but one throw, he pads after him. Apparently, Ten's bed was where Yangyang harvested most of the blankets. That's a problem for Future Ten. Now, he's got a Kun pacing back and forth nearly pulling his hair out. He's tired just looking at him.

"Well? Speak."

"Your episode."

Ten's nose scrunches in distaste. "Do we have to call it that? You make it sound like I'm some Victorian lady fainting from a too-tight corset."

"Your… whatever. It happened right after you were showing us the drawing you have."

"Yeah?"

Kun gestures. 

"You think it was related."

"More than that," Kun says. He flops into the desk chair — some modern thing with no real edges that definitely cost too much for what it is — looking just as exhausted as Ten feels. "I recognized it. I think. It looked different, there were runes. And obviously it was a device, not a drawing but Ten… That's one of Master Mo's inventions."

The words zing through his body, a tiny spark of hope in an otherwise bleak investigation. Ten shrugs off his blanket. "You're sure?"

Kun nods, fiddling with the chain around his neck. "I never saw it in use, but yes. I'm sure."

"Do you know what it does? Who could have it?"

"No and no. The house was just ashes when I went back." He frowns at whatever he sees pass over Ten's face. "You can't be serious. You're not going to still look for it."

"What? Of course I am. It's my job." Ten frowns right back.

"It's your… Ten, someone is out there trying to kidnap you! And you and I both know who it is."

"No one's asking you to come along for the ride. I just need a lead, Kun."

Kun's jaw clenches so hard his teeth have to hurt. "Well, you won't get one from me. It's too dangerous. I can't help you. I _won't_ help you."

"I have a reputation," Ten sighs.

"Fuck your reputation!" Kun shouts.

Every ounce of fatigue he's been staving off crashes over him at once. He can see the whole argument like he's a diviner; he'll plant his flag and cross his arms, Kun will start pacing again. They'll get louder and louder until they're not arguing, just slinging insults back and forth. Until one of them really gets their feelings hurt. The migraine knocks against his skull, sending sparks through his vision.

"You know what? No." Ten's eyes narrow. "I am too fucking tired to do this with you Mr. I'm Always Right. You are not my Master. Thank you for your help tonight, you can go now."

There's a moment, Kun's mouth dropping open, his eyes flashing with anger, when he braces himself for the explosion. The Kun he knew kept his temper poorly bottled and no one was better at pulling out the stopper than Ten. But this Kun's teeth clack as he snaps his mouth shut. Without another word, he hauls himself out of the chair. Muffled voices come from the living room, but it's not until the door slams shut that Ten emerges from his bedroom. 

"Yangyang, I'm sleeping with you tonight," Ten says.

Yangyang just nods, eyes wide. It's good enough. Ten doesn't have a plan for anything else but sleep is obviously the next step.

————

He wakes up the next day to the pounding of a headache and a strange vampire rooting around his fridge. 

"Ah!" Dejun closes the fridge door too hard and it pops back open. He backs up like a mouse being eyed by a hungry cat until it squeezes shut. "Hi."

Ten just squints. "How did you get in?"

"Kun made me a pass for the wards."

He should have known better than to let Kun set the wards. Kun had always been the better one at that kind of fiddly work, though, and his head has been nothing but coins jangling together for over twelve hours, so it, too, gets labeled a Future Ten problem. It's not until he has the synth heating on the stove that he realizes the flat's vibe is different. Yangyang is on the balcony, talking on the phone animatedly. But…

"Where's Lucas?"

Dejun smiles. It's wide and kind of awkward, all the confidence from their first meeting gone as if it had never existed. "He had to meet up with the rest of the pack. Full moon tomorrow."

"Right. Whistler."

"Yeah." 

Ten eyes the other vampire warily. "Why are you here?" 

"Oh! I'm your new security detail. For the weekend."

"New security… You're not even an elder." Dejun bristles at that, his chest puffing out like rooster's. It's just ridiculous enough to make Ten laugh. "You're cute."

"Elder or not, I can handle myself," Dejun says, voice artificially low.

"I feel safer already. Welcome to the humble abode, bodyguard Xiao." Warm synth in hand, Ten pops his head out on the balcony. The sun is already setting; bright pinks and oranges lighting up the underside of the night's heathered clouds. The wind shifts and Ten gets a glimpse of the nearly full moon rising into the sky. He has to clear his throat twice to get Yangyang's attention. 

"Hold on," his progeny says, annoyed. He covers the speaker like a teenager being interrupted by their mum. "What's up?"

"There's synth on the hob," Ten answers. Oh god. He _is_ the mum.

Yangyang shakes his head. "I already ate."

"Okay, well, I have to run an errand. You want to come?" Every word sounds like he's desperate for his son's attention. Has it always been like this? It can't have been. Ten distinctly remembers being cool and laid back at one point. When did he become uncool?

"Go on ahead," Yangyang answers. "But take Dejun with you. Don't do..."

Ten raises an eyebrow.

Yangyang rolls his eyes and puts his phone back up against his ear. "Sorry about that."

The glass door slides shut with an audible click that echoes through his empty brain. 

"An errand?" Dejun asks. 

"Mmm." Ten takes a long drink of his synth. Nectar's quality is going to ruin him for when they have to go back to London. A&E just can't compete. His headache is still a living thing in the back of his brain, but the food is helping. "I think I need to dye my hair."

"Is… that the errand?"

"What? No." He sighs. "I need to be cool again."

"I think you're cool," Dejun volunteers. 

The smile Dejun offers up is genuine, if still unsure. But his jeans are too loose, he's wearing practical bar manager shoes — brown leather lace ups — and a sweater two sizes too big. Of course he thinks Ten's cool. 

"Cursed with the children we deserve," Ten murmurs before padding back down the hallway. 

The ride to the store is quiet, at least on Ten's part. Dejun hums to himself, tapping his fingers against the door to whatever rhythm he hears in his head. It syncs up with the pounding of the migraine that's been threatening since he woke up but Dejun looks so relaxed that Ten doesn't bother asking him to stop. Silence won't fix it anyway.

That his head is still hurting is just the icing on what has been an incredibly shit cake. He's always been good at compartmentalizing, but the last twenty-four hours have him running out of compartments. Meeting Zhong Chenle, that's a small box unto itself. The news that Master Mo lives, that's a second, much bigger box. The third box is for the kidnapping attempt; box 3b is his own failure to prevent it. And the last box, large enough to fit them all, is Kun. 

Kun hurts his head in an entirely different way. He has the same dimples, same kind eyes. He looks at Ten the same way, too, sometimes. Like they're still playing the same game. Ten leans against the cool glass of the window. The sky has turned to slate, same as all the other nights. They're playing something. Whether or not they should be is an entirely different box.

"What is this place?" Dejun asks as they wander through the stacks of furniture. He runs a hand over a dresser, sneezing as it kicks up a cloud of dust. 

Ten brushes the dirt off his jacket. "A shrine to a past life."

"Whose?"

"Mine," Cordelia Catchpole declares, shuffling out of her store room. She's wearing the same grey cardigan, but her hands are smudged with ink. "The end of an era. Now my niece has my brother on my case. He owns fifty percent of the store. Have you ever had to liquidate a whole lifetime, Mr. Lee?"

"I've never had the luxury," Ten says. "It's good to see you Ms. Catchpole."

She tilts her head back to look down at him through her reading glasses. "I don't suppose you have. Where is your handsome bodyguard? The wolf?"

Ten raises his eyebrows at her.

"Right, full moon," she sighs, a breath of cold winter wind pulling down the last of the leaves. "How far I've fallen. I guess it really is time for Edmonton." With one long sniff, her attention snaps to Dejun. "I suppose you're an apprentice, too?"

"Ah, no ma'am. Mr. Lee's security."

"You don't smell that old."

Dejun's face screws up like he's getting ready to let out a truly impressive screech. It would be funny, if Ten wasn't ready to stab himself in the eye to make the pounding of his head stop. "I came here for a favor, actually, Ms. Catchpole."

"More oil."

"You sure you're retired?"

"Flattery will get you everywhere, Mr. Lee, but very few people look so pinched when they're feeling good." The vial flashes in her hand like magic. "I developed this in the seventies after a particularly rough case in Phoenix. Everyone smoked back then. Almost impossible to smell anything. Gave me the nastiest headache every time I'd run into so much as a charm."

Ten bows his head dutifully for her to rub the oil onto his temples. "My new place has wards."

Cordelia tsks. "I thought you would know better."

"An unfortunate necessity." 

"Because of your missing artifact?" 

Her fingers drum against the glass case but already the oil is working its magic. As his head soothes, his skin prickles, Cordelia's own magical antiques making their presence known. Ten nods. "Something like that. Are you really going to move to Edmonton?"

Dejun's face goes on a journey but he wisely keeps his mouth shut. Even so, Cordelia sniffs. "I'm sure it's a perfectly nice place. My niece loves the kombucha brewer at her farmer's market."

"But do you like kombucha?"

"I will learn to like it."

Ten scoffs. 

"This old dog still has a few tricks up her sleeve, Mr. Lee." 

"I don't doubt that for a second."

Cordelia regards him carefully, a silent assessment. A test. Ten stares back, unflinching. He doesn't fail and he isn't going to start now. His phone dings from the front pocket of his jacket and she looks down, glasses slipping from her face. The gold chain catches them before they can clatter to the ground. 

**From: Hendery Wong**  
[5:36 P.M.]  
Hey can we meet up later? I have something I think you want to see.

**To: Hendery Wong**  
[5:37 P.M.]  
Sure. When/Where?

**From: Hendery Wong**  
[5:37 P.M.]  
I have a game in an hour so like 10? Wherever.

[5:38 P.M.]  
OH! It's 2nd Sat. Nectar fo sho

Ten sighs. Nectar. Of course.

**To: Hendery Wong**  
[5:39 P.M.]  
Nectar. 10pm. 

"Now that's a dubious lead face if I've ever seen it," Cordelia says. Her thin lips curl into the faintest approximation of a smile. 

"Unfortunately." Ten pauses. The magic-infused oil still sits between them on the counter. "May I buy this vial from you?"

"Ah, now we come to the real reason for your visit. Very well. A thousand and I'll even throw in a free gift."

Dejun chokes on his tongue. "A thousand dollars?"

"Done," Ten says.

Cordelia chuckles. "I should have said two."

"You could have said five." 

She takes his proffered credit card. "The dowsing business must pay better than it used to. One moment."

"One thousand dollars. That vial is one ounce if that?" Dejun asks. "That's ridiculous."

Ten surveys him, the too-big sweater and practical jeans slotting into place. "You came from less than nothing, too. And it's been what? A hundred years? Less?"

"Ninety-six," Dejun answers, barely audible. His eyes are wide. 

"Let me teach you a lesson your good, hard-working sire never will, Xiao Dejun. The point of having gobs of money is to make your problems go away. The work is its own reward, sure. It keeps us on our toes. Keeps life worth living." There's a rustle from behind the counter as Cordelia returns, but he doesn't let his attention stray. He grins, fox-like. "But the money is also a reward. Use it."

Dejun nods like Ten is some venerated teacher, dutiful in a way that Yangyang never is. It's a change of pace that warms him all the way down to his belly. 

"Your oil," Cordelia says. "And a gift for your apprentice, since he liked it so much."

In her palm is the vial of green-tinted oil and also a familiar garnet ring. The goosebumps crawl up his arms. 

"Are you sure? This is quite the bonus item." Ten asks, picking it up carefully. The magic jumps over his fingertips and he has to fight to hold onto it. 

Cordelia doesn't shrug. She isn't built for shrugging. "Better you than some two-bit collector who won't appreciate what he has. Or worse, one who does and tries to use it."

The garnet flashes in the light like it knows its being discussed. With a grateful smile, Ten pockets both the oil and the ring. "Thank you for your generosity. And now I'm afraid we must be going."

"Then I suppose this is goodbye, Mr. Lee. I have enjoyed meeting you. Good luck in your endeavors." She pushes her bifocals back up her impressive nose. 

"The pleasure was mine, Ms. Catchpole."

——————

The traffic back across town to their apartment tower is murder. Despite the oil's best efforts, another headache descends upon him as the elevator doors slide shut. He slumps against the rail, closing his eyes against the bright, fluorescent light. Dejun looks at him, concerned, but he's already pulling out his new favourite purchase in the entirety of existence.

There's a flicker from the panel of buttons, the red ring around their floor blinking out. Ten swallows, hurriedly dabbing oil on his temple. He gets too much and it drips down the side of his face, but he can't care. The long bulb above him fizzes and goes dark.

Magic cascades over him, cold and heavy. It pulls at his skin, caressing his flesh. The elevator continues to rise in the pitch black. Ten sucks in a deep breath to keep from yelling. 

"Everything okay?" Dejun asks. 

"Yeah, just," Ten grits out, "This headache, you know."

The oil helps a little. Instead of the incessant hammering of magic against his brain, there's only the darkness and the usual jitters. He can even see the slim outline of Dejun next to him. Could someone be making a second attempt? It seems unlikely so soon after the first failed one. And how would they even know where Ten is? His sensitivity should have alerted him to any vampires following them to the antiques store.

"Dejun," he says, proud to sound almost entirely normal, "Do you have any contacts in Switzerland?"

"No? I mean, we have a few contracts in Europe but it's logistically really difficult to ship synth through EU customs. Why?"

"Don't worry about it."

With Dejun around, anything Ten says is bound to get back to Kun. At least Lucas had a modicum of sympathy for the man he was protecting. But Dejun's devotion to his sire is indisputable.

There was that word again, his brain whispers. 

He shudders as another wave of magic washes over him, blotting out the worry on Dejun's face. 

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine," Ten snaps.

The doors open to a quickly dimming hallway and a Yangyang waiting by the elevator bank. His eyebrows fly up his forehead. "Woah, Ten, you don't look so good."

"I'm _fine_ ," Ten repeats. He has to squint to make out the details, but Yangyang is definitely wearing his tightest jeans. Jeans that used to be Ten's. "Where are you going?"

All the light around them is sucked into the black hole following Ten, but no one else seems to notice. Ten concentrates as hard as he can past the crawling magic. All he can sense are the three of them. No arrays. No assailants. Just three vampires and the wards on their flat down the hall. Yangyang isn't showing any signs of a disturbance either.

"Out," Yangyang says. "But I can cancel my plans…"

"No, no. I've got," he fishes the vial out of his pocket, fingers brushing against the hard metal of the ring, "help. And a present for you, courtesy of the lovely Cordelia Catchpole."

"A present?"

"Catch." With a flick of his wrist he tosses the ring to Yangyang, who snags it out of the air easily. "Your _anello di protezione_ or whatever."

Yangyang laughs, holding the ring up to a light Ten can't see. "Your Italian is fucking terrible."

"That's what I have you for. Be careful with that, okay?"

"Yes, mum," Yangyang says, only half mocking. The elevator doors ding and slide open behind him. "Are you sure?"

"Go, pull. Be young and cool."

With a final eyeroll, Yangyang gets into the elevator. Ten really needs to dye his hair. The wards ripple over him as they make it into the condo and everything brightens immediately. He could go blond again, but Kun is already blond. That would be too obvious. Pink, maybe. Mark has pink hair. He's young. 

"Dejun, you know Mark Lee, right?"

"Yeah, why?" Dejun pours synth into a pot like it will solve all their problems.

"Is he cool?"

"Yeah, he's cool."

Not pink. 

"I've got to make some phone calls," Ten says. "I'll be in my room if you need me."

They still have a few hours before he's supposed to meet up with Hendery which means he should be tracking down another lead. There are only six days left on the deadline, and every time he feels like he's getting close, the trail goes abruptly cold. 

There's something else he has to take care of, however. He scrolls mindlessly through his contacts list. Albrecht should be his first call; last he heard he's still part of the Munich coterie, but he's been on Ten's unofficial shit-list since the eighties. Delphine is still in Paris, though a favor from her means owing a favor in return. And, unless something's changed in the last five years, she's also terrible about correspondence that isn't sent through the post. He can't imagine she would have telephone or internet installed now just to keep up with the "trend."

His finger hovers over the one name he probably shouldn't call. But it's not like his options are bountiful. He picks up on the third ring. 

"Hey, Ten," Johnny says. He sounds tired, even though it's just after nine there.

"Is this a bad time?"

"There's never a bad time for you, Tennie."

Ten chuckles. "How can you say that stuff with a straight face?"

"Oh, are you picturing my face right now?"

"Maybe. Maybe not."

"I'll tell you what I'm wearing. All you've gotta do is ask."

"Mmm. Tempting." Ten stretches back in his chair, spine popping. He needs to do more yoga. Eternal youth only goes so far. "Unfortunately this is a work call. Work-ish."

"One sec," Johnny says. It's muffled, but Ten can hear him yelling at someone in the background. "Sorry. These philistines have no appreciation for the classics. So, work-ish, huh?"

"I need a contact in Switzerland."

"Switzerland? I thought your artifact was on the west coast."

"This isn't… I need to find someone."

There's a knock at his door and Dejun enters with a mug of warm synth. "Thanks," Ten mouths as he sets it next to him.

Johnny lets out a long breath. "Are you sure you don't want to hear what I'm wearing? This shirt has snaps instead of buttons."

"Johnny."

Dejun's expressive eyebrows give away everything he's thinking. This is definitely going in whatever report he delivers to Kun. Ten does his best to keep his smile nice and neutral as he waves him out again. Let Kun stew a little. He's the one who won't help out. 

"Europe's a little out of my wheelhouse. But you know that. Unless they're a major collector? Big fan of Cassatt?" 

"Unlikely. Rare books, maybe. Especially magical texts, grimoires, the like."

"Ten, babe, you know I'd give you the world, but," Johnny replies, distracted, "that's way out of my territory. Hey! How many times do I have to tell you to be fucking careful with that."

"It's like they don't understand the meaning of priceless," Ten says.

"I know, right?" A door shuts on Johnny's end and the line gets a whole lot quieter. "Sorry I can't be more help. If I think of someone, I'll let you know."

"Don't worry about it. I knew it was a longshot." Ten sighs. "Hey, Johnny. You stay friends with your exes, right?"

"Yeah, you could say that." Johnny, like always, doesn't push, letting the conversation go silent until Ten can get his question past his reticent lips.

"How do you do it?"

"I don't know. Chicago's a big city. We stay out of each other's orbit. Unless we don't, which can be fun, too." A chair squeaks. Ten can just imagine him leaning back, thighs spread wide and inviting. "Are you trying to make me jealous?"

Ten smirks into the phone. "Is it working?"

"Maybe."

"Then maybe."

There's a loud banging noise and Johnny swears. "Oh for fucks sake. I've gotta go."

Like usual, they don't say goodbye. Ten simply presses the end call button and slumps over the wooden desk. The synth sitting next to his laptop — Nectar's synth, _Kun's_ synth — taunts him. Fuck his whole entire life.

With a sigh, he opens his laptop and gets to work. Yangyang's better at research. Well, the newfangled kind of research, where one googles and googles until they hit page ten of results and then it's back to the drawing board, tweaking the wording of the query. But to get Yangyang's help, he'd need to tell him why he was suddenly so interested in real estate transactions near Bern in the last century. 

And, okay, Yangyang is smart, he's probably already put two and two together. But there's a difference between Yangyang _knowing_ about Master Mo's sudden change in expiration, and being willing to answer all of his probing questions about what this means for them both. Ten scrolls through site after site, his synth growing cold as he reads. It takes his phone vibrating on his desk for him to remember that he does have plans tonight. Hopefully less frustrating ones.

**From: Hendery Wong**  
[9:43 P.M.]  
omw. bring cash

**To: Hendery Wong**  
[9:43 P.M.]  
?????

Hendery doesn't answer, so Ten just grabs his wallet and books the Uber.

————-

Ten doesn't recognize the human at the door though Dejun obviously does, giving the big, bald white man a fistbump.

"Thanks for filling in, Soup," Dejun says.

"No problem, Xiao." He looks Ten up and down, shockingly intimidating for someone lower on the food chain. "Cover's ten dollars."

"I'm literally with your boss."

Soup just crosses his arms. Dejun lifts one of his impressive eyebrows with a look that clearly says 'I saw you drop a grand earlier, don't be cheap.' Ten may be a lot of things, but he's not cheap. He drops the cash into Soup's palm with a winning smile.

"Why is there a cover anyway?" He asks as they make their way through the narrow hall. 

"It's for the girls," Dejun answers, like that clears anything up.

Of course, as they stride through the red velvet curtain it becomes obvious. On the small stage a group of four drag queens perform a choreographed dance to a remix of "My Heart Will Go On". In the center, there's a barely recognizable Sicheng the bartender, bedecked in blue sparkles and a blonde wig. From one of the far back tables, Hendery waves him down with an excess of enthusiasm.

"I got here too late to get a good table, sorry," he apologizes.

It's crowded; at least compared to their first visit. A cheer goes up from the patrons as one of the queens drops into a split. Dejun wanders off towards the bar for drinks or to check up on his staff. Probably the latter. Magic wanders across his arms, cool and inviting. Sicheng isn't the only vampire on the stage and he's not the only one in the crowd. His heart thuds and Ten has to stop himself from craning to look around; Kun's close but not that close. And…

"I think Yangyang's here," he murmurs.

"You can go say hi," Hendery says. "I'm not getting up, though. Someone'll gank our spot."

"No," Ten shakes his head, "he's trying to pull tonight. He gets tired of synth faster than I do. And feeding is… unique."

"Yeah?"

He can barely remember the last time he fed from a live person. There had always been a dubious morality to it, but a man has to eat. And if you could make it pleasurable for the human, too, it wasn't so bad. Now, though, there is a strange dichotomy to feeding — either the human is so incredibly enthusiastic it becomes almost off-putting or they have enough objections that there's a clear lack of consent. Easier to stick to synth.

"Yeah. Only a step below really good sex." A server drops a tumbler of synth in front of him, and a drink for Hendery.

"Xiao told me to tell you they're on the house," she fixes Ten with a hard look, "and this is verbatim 'so tip well.'"

Hendery laughs. "Aye, aye, captain."

She ruffles Hendery's long hair before disappearing into the crowd.

"So," Ten says, trying to keep his mind on track, "why did you drag me to a drag show?"

On stage, Sicheng has the mic, introducing all the queens with a verve he definitely didn't have behind the bar. 

"Because it's the best thing to do on the second Saturday of the month, of course." At Ten's unimpressed look, Hendery cracks up. "Okay, okay, mom, jeez. Other than the lovely Winderella, I really do have something to show you. So they nerfed my girl Evelynn the other day and after the like, third game of people yelling about picking Rammus I was like "fuck this" you know?"

Ten nods. He absolutely does not know.

"But it was good timing because Ceec called right after to bitch about wedding planning," Hendery continues, "and she mentioned your lantern that isn't a lantern. So that got me thinking and long story short," he pauses to rustle around in the small messenger bag slung over the back of his chair, "I made this."

He deposits a lump of paper on the table. 

"Uh," Ten says, articulate as always. 

"Oh, sorry, it's a little squished." 

Hendery's nimble fingers poke and puff the lump until what sits between them is a paper model with a small bulb at one end and a larger bulb at the other.

Ten frowns at it, but the model doesn't divulge any of its secrets. "Hendery, why did you make a paper butt plug?"

A lesser man would blush. Get flustered. Ten's almost disappointed that he barely pulls a reaction from Hendery, who just sets his drink down with a wide smile.

"It does look like that, right? Trust me, you do not want to google 'Qing Dynasty butt plug' without an incognito window. But this," he holds it upright from the larger bulb, "is actually your lantern that isn't a lantern."

He taps a finger against the larger end. "This is where your key goes, and the petals fold down from the other end. Based on the schematic you gave me I made it with ten petals, but depending on size it could have a lot more or less than that. Unfortunately, with all the editing to your photo, I have no idea if this is to scale."

"What would someone want with a magical butt plug?" Ten muses. 

"I don't know, man. People have been freaks since the dawn of time."

The first strains of "God is a Woman" pull Hendery's attention back to the stage. Sicheng — Winderella — rolls dramatically over the backs of three scantily clad body builders as she lip syncs along. Ten sips at his synth, turning the model over and over in his mind. It just doesn't make sense that Lady Burnett-Cecil would send him on a hunt for a sex toy, magical or not. Every other job he's worked for Banks has been the opposite of salacious. Mostly books, and one easily-obtained mirror to reveal hidden rune-work. 

The chorus hits and Hendery lifts the model to his lips, using it as his own makeshift mic to sing along. Ten's own mouth drops open. 

"Hendery, what if it goes in the other way?"

"Huh?"

"What if it goes in someone's mouth," Ten says, excitedly. "I'm pretty sure I've seen things like that. European, though. But there was lots of cultural exchange by the sixteen hundreds. Hendery, google mouth torture."

"What?" Hendery finally snaps back into the conversation. "No. You do it."

"I don't know what an incognito window _is_. Just do it."

"Fine," he huffs, tapping on his phone. "Mouth. Torture. Device? I'm doing device. Here. Image search."

The pictures load quickly as Ten scrolls. Most of them are similar looking to the model sitting on the table, bulbs splitting into several petals when turned by a set of gears. He shivers, half from the very idea but half with the zing of a good lead.

"Do we have any Prince Charmings here tonight?" Winderella calls out, earning raucous cheers in return. "Princesses, go fetch us some princes! He needs to be strong. But soft. And good with his… sword." There are whoops and Winderella gasps, covering her mouth with a dainty gloved hand. "For slaying dragons, people."

The three other drag queens weave through the crowd, collecting tips and flirting. A convincing Queen of Hearts stops at their table, eyes lighting up as she plucks the five dollar bill from Hendery's outstretched hand. "Oh, I choose _you_ , Pikacutie." 

Her talons wrap around Hendery's bicep in case he tries to do something stupid like run away, but he looks delighted. Three other princes get pulled up on stage to sit in chairs on like a display of cupcakes in a bakery window. Winderella winks at the audience as "I Need A Hero" blasts from the speakers.

Hendery squints, frowning out past the bright stage lights. "Cat? What the fuck?"


	9. Chapter 9

_He couldn't shake the feeling that he was being watched. Which was ridiculous, because of course he was being watched. The whole point of the show was to be watched. But this was their third afternoon in the town square, the final performance, and each day his skin had crawled as he looked out over the gathered crowd._

_His eyes met those of a young man, dark and serious, as he stood in the shadow of his elder. A scholar, probably, by the quality of his jacket and the ink splotches on his sleeves._

_"Li Yongqin," Hu Cheng hissed. He had the bamboo ladder braced against his leg, waiting._

_It didn't matter if every instinct in his thin body was telling him to run. Chittaphon bowed deeply to his audience and, with a flourish, climbed. When he dismounted, the aerial somersault to a perfect standing landing, the handsome student was gone. So was the dread._

_They made camp that night not too far out of town. The moon had just begun to wane but it was certainly bright enough to see by, the night warm and cloudless as the first hint of summer descended upon them. He could hear Hu Cheng and Lin Julong bicker about their next stop as they headed into the woods for more scrap for the fire. The troupe had been whittled down to just them now that Old Man Yao had finally passed away. Hu Cheng had raided their meager savings for a proper funeral._

_Money ill spent, he thought, watching the potatoes sputter in the embers._

_The wind picked up, whining through the trees like it could hear his resentment. If anyone would come back to haunt him despite all that money, it_ would _be Old Man Yao. Picky bastard. It whipped cold across his skin, turning it to gooseflesh._

_A potato popped, exploding from its skin._

_"Aw, fuck." He grabbed his potato-poking stick, doing his best to maneuver the edible bits away from the ashes. He shivered again. It felt like ants, ants made of ice, were marching up his legs. Behind him, a twig snapped. "I don't want to hear it, Lin Julong. Next time you make dinner."_

_The fire flared and Chittaphon scrambled back from the sudden blaze, knocking into something solid. Looking down at him, the handsome student's face curved into a sympathetic smile. He had dimples, he thought wildly._

_There was a clearing of a throat and the flames quieted. Striding towards him was the scholar, immaculate and unafraid. He tried to push himself to his feet, but the student made an aborted noise of disapproval. He knew what that meant. Rise and get the cane to a knee. He had been a student of sorts, too. So he sat, sweating, as the master loomed over him, inspecting him, while his heart lodged in his throat._

_"I am here to make you an offer, boy. What is your name?"_

_"Li Yongqin," he answered, automatically. It had been drilled into him the first year with Old Man Yao, his mother's sweet voice whispering his real name beaten out of his head._

_The man hummed, considering whether or not the answer satisfied. "Very well, Li Yongqin. I can offer you a new life. No more street carnivals. No more eating potatoes from the fire."_

_"And what do you get?" His leg bounced with a restlessness he couldn't seem to control, but he tried to keep his face calm. No good deal came without giving something up._

_"A new student. You have a particular… sensitivity that I am interested in studying."_

_"And if I say no?"_

_"You may join your friends." The scholar smiled, but there was nothing kind about it._

_Chittaphon swallowed, his eyes darting back to the student's. The shake of his head was barely perceptible, but it said everything he needed to know._

_"What's your name?"_

_"You may call me Mo Hengzhi."_

_Finally, he pushed himself to his feet, dropping into a respectful bow. "I accept, Mo-laoshi."_

_"I was hoping you'd say that." His smile widened. The fire shined orange on the points of his fangs._

_"This will hurt," the student warned seconds before those teeth sunk into his neck. It was a nice voice._

————

"And where do you think you're going," Ten says, sliding into the booth and trapping Yangyang's skinny legs between his own so he can't get away. 

At the back of the bar, Hendery and his sister are arguing in rapid-fire Cantonese. The Queen of Hearts is doing a burlesque striptease to "Unbreak My Heart." Yangyang's face is carefully blank. 

"Hello Ten, are you enjoying the show?"

"Yangyang. My baby Yangyangie." He jerks his foot, but Ten just grips harder with his ankles. "A date? And you didn't tell me?"

"See, this? This is why I didn't tell you. I knew it would be a thing."

Ten can hear the capital T he puts on Thing. "Who's making it a thing? I'm not making it a thing. It would only be a thing if my progeny was sneaking around behind my back and not keeping me informed about his life choices that will end in disaster. Now that would be a _thing_."

"Oh my god. It's fine, Ten. It's just a date."

"A date with a witch. Whose brother is also a witch. Not to mention her whole entire family," Ten whispers. If he doesn't, he will absolutely end up yelling. "Those always end so well."

Yangyang's reply is cut off as a seething Catherine Wong drops into the booth next to him and aggressively grabs his hand. Hendery scoffs as he sits next to Ten.

"Oh come on," he sneers in Cantonese still. "PDA? Really?"

Her face screws up with a fury Ten hasn't experienced since the time someone nicked Yangyang's precious BMW with their door. 

"Hen, meet my boyfriend Yangyang," she says, switching back to English. "We were on a nice, normal first date, but then you decided to be a giant asshole so now we're in love. Yangyang, have you met my brother, the talking sphincter? Mom will make me invite him to the wedding but we can ask him to quietly leave before the reception."

Hendery throws his hands up. "This isn't funny, Mew."

"I'm sorry but the heart wants what it wants," Cat says, completely straight-faced.

Yangyang looks at her like she hung the moon. This is going to be a problem. 

"Hello, peasants," Winderella trills, draping herself across Hendery. "I have a message for you, Mr. Lee, but first I require sustenance."

Even a lap full of his favorite person can't wipe away Hendery's scowl. Ten slides his glass of synth within reach but she just giggles and holds out a gloved hand. 

"A queen can't live on blood alone." The twenty he presses into her palm has Winderella gracing them with a wide smile. "A little mouse told me that there's a visitor in the tasting room who'd love to see you, Mr. Lee. You better run along before her majesty has you turned into a pumpkin. Our dashing Xiao Dejun can show you the way."

She pats Hendery's cheek fondly before swirling away in a cloud of glitter like a drag ninja.

Yet another problem for Future Ten, then. 

"Well, if you'll excuse me, I believe I've been summoned." 

Like clockwork, Dejun appears at his side, and leads him back through the bar past the Employees Only door. They climb a narrow staircase that leads into the building's main foyer and then it's time to steel himself for what's to come. There's only one reason Master Kwon could want to speak to him.

Dejun knocks softly on the door.

"Come, sit," Master Kwon beckons. 

She lounges in one of the leather armchairs just like it was her own throne. It might as well be. Her two beautiful bodyguards, themed and expressionless, stand behind her. Ten does as he's told. Her face is static today, with wide brown eyes and a small mouth, like a doll, but her hair — long and wavy — cycles through an ombre of colours. Her cream suit jacket is cut sharply in contrast to her gentle expression. 

His skin jumps with the force of her age and power. "What a pleasure to see you again, Master Kwon."

"You know, at first, when Qian Kun told me he wished to open a bar, I was against it. So cliche. Vampires in the nightclub business. But the market research has been invaluable."

She gestures at a snifter on the table with a single delicate finger. 

"I can see how that would be helpful," Ten agrees.

Her pink pout barely quirks upward. "Now, though, I am convinced of the necessity of having our own space. Somewhere we can really be ourselves even in this modern world."

Ten mirrors the expression as best he can. Whatever is on her mind, she's not about to be straightforward about it. "Indeed. If I may ask a question, Master Kwon?"

Her head tilts in acquiescence. 

"It's fair to say that you have a heightened awareness of your city's operations, is it not?"

"It is fair to say that, yes."

"And every elder that spends time in Vancouver passes through your doors?"

"The polite ones." This grin shows a little fang. "The less polite ones are not inclined to stay for long."

Ten sits forward. "Then you would know, Master, if Mo Hengzhi was in your city."

The Master's laugh is higher than he expected it to be, girlish. It tinkles like a sleigh bell from an old Christmas movie. "That is the second time I have been asked that question tonight. Though I suppose I shouldn't be surprised, considering."

It's his turn to nod. Of course Kun would get there first.

"I will tell you what I told him. I haven't seen or heard from the professor in a century or more." She regards him with a unyielding gaze, her eyes bright as polished amber. "You wouldn't happen to be asking because of a certain incident yesterday evening, would you?"

There it is.

He considers his words carefully. "I apologize for any distress that may have caused."

"I thought I was very clear, Mr. Lee."

"It won't happen again."

The door behind him opens and closes, the blood in his veins signalling who it is long before Kun makes his way into his peripheral vision. Whatever shows on his face makes her smirk. "See that it doesn't. Is this everything?"

Kun passes her a thick yellow envelope. "Everything from November, and updated December projections. There should be a digital copy in your inbox as well."

"Excellent." Master Kwon stands, teal hair flowing out behind her like a mermaid. Her bodyguards flank her with terrifying synchronicity. "Have a good evening, gentlemen."

It's not until the door closes behind her that Ten realizes his shoulders are up around his ears. He rolls his neck, the pop of his vertebrae loud in the plush room.

"That bad?" Kun asks. He rummages behind his bar.

"A bit overwhelming."

Kun doesn't kick him out, so Ten takes a moment to fish his phone out of his jacket to fire off an email to the one person who may actually know something about his quarry.

**To: Rosa.Martinez@zeeceeprod.com**  
Subject: Re: Fwd: 12/13/24 - Tickets Box 11  
_Ms. Martinez,_  
_It appears the artifact may have been a torture device. Would you be able to pass along the names of any collectors who specialize in those?_

The sound of a glass being set in front of him finally makes him look up. "She stresses me out and I can't even feel her magic," Kun says relaxing into the armchair the Master just vacated. "I've only been working on this formula for a few weeks. I'm curious what you think about it."

The snifter is warm to the touch. Ten swirls the crimson liquid, lifting it to his nose to sniff the bouquet like some sort of wine snob. Kun chuckles, like he's supposed to, rubbing absently at the chain under his light blue button down. He's besuited again, the fine wool of his navy slacks stretching over his thighs as he watches Ten drink.

The synth is O-positive, but there's a thread of something else, too. A hint of AB, maybe. It's disgusting how good it is. 

"Only a few weeks?" Ten says. "It's good."

"Since the factory has a full-time R&D team, it's easy to get small batch production up and running if there aren't any red flags, chemically." His face lights up the way it always has when he gets to go full nerd. "You like it though? You're not just saying that?"

Ten just raises his eyebrow. "Would I humour you?"

"Fair enough," Kun laughs. 

The silence stretches between them as thick and heady as the synth in his glass. With a little concentration, Ten can feel Dejun standing guard outside the room, and below, more vampires milling about the club. No shifters tonight, probably all holed up in preparation for the full moon. But that's just his sensitivity. 

His heart beats slowly, evenly, a throb that tugs at his connections. Yangyang is still downstairs, which is slightly surprising. Across from him, Kun's pulse beats in time with his own. 

"I'm sorry I yelled," Kun says, quiet. "It wasn't a good, or healthy, or helpful response to the situation."

"You sound like a therapist."

"Mary has me doing anger management exercises. They work. Most of the time."

Ten smirks. "I always did bring out the worst in you. Don't worry, I'll be out of your hair soon."

Kun opens his mouth like he's going to say something, but rethinks it. Instead he shakes his head. "And then another hundred years of silence?"

"I don't know," Ten answers, honestly. 

Too honest, probably. He hasn't let himself think much beyond the confines of his deadline. Has been avoiding the idea of the future. When he was still young, Yangyang went through a sci-fi phase, watching every movie he could get his hands on. He loved the idea of parallel universes. 

Ten can see them stretching out in front of them now. One where he goes back to their cozy flat in London. One where he's staring up into the grim black of Master Mo's stern eyes. One where he crawls in between Kun's spread legs and lays his cheek against the starched fabric of his trousers.

"Well, what do you want?"

His phone rings. "Sorry, I have to take this." The number is unlisted, it could be the newest round of robocalls, but Ten's not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. He hurries out of the room like he's being chased by a doberman.

"Mr. Lee," Ms. Martinez's clipped tones are even more pronounced over the phone. "I'm glad I caught you."

It's nearly midnight, but if he was Chenle Zhong's PA he supposes he'd be up at all hours, too. "I didn't expect to hear back from you so quickly."

She ignores the pleasantry. "Mr. Zhong can't think of anyone in particular that fits your description. However, he does remember seeing an exhibit of historical torture devices at an art museum in Minneapolis the last time we visited the Xcel center. He remembers, and I quote, 'because it was ironic, given how torturous the game was'. I hope that helps."

"Immensely."

"Excellent. Have a good night, Mr. Lee _,_ " she says, before ending the call abruptly. He shivers. If she ever turns, he knows exactly which coterie he's joining.

"Dejun," he says. The man looks up from his phone game like he wasn't just trying to eavesdrop. "Go get your passport."

"Where are we going?" he asks.

"If we're lucky? Minnesota."

"If we're lucky," Dejun repeats in disbelief. But he trots off towards the stairs up to their apartment anyway.

**To: The GOAT**  
[11:44 P.M.]  
Head home. Got a lead.

**From: The GOAT**  
[11:45 P.M.]  
You gonna do that disappointed face at me some more?  


**To: The GOAT**  
[11:45 P.M.]  
Home, Yangyang.

**From: The GOAT**  
[11:46 P.M.]  
That's a yes

————

"So," Dejun starts as they grab their carry-on bags from the security screening machine, "is everything okay?"

He knows it isn't. Dejun had very carefully stayed out of the living room as Yangyang had begrudgingly googled art exhibits in Minnesota for the last ten years. It hadn't taken as long to find what they were looking for as Ten had expected: Pain & Suffering - the Art of Torture had passed through in 2018. There was even an official hashtag for the event.

Which led them to Instagram. And then, gloriously displayed from every angle the public could conceive of, was their brass lantern-not-lantern. It was halfway open, petals splayed outward, probably the curator's way of trying to make it look less like a buttplug. They were unsuccessful if the captions were anything to go by.

Of course, the thrill of victory faded as soon as Yangyang said "You don't need me for this. I'll stay here."

"Everything's fine," Ten says. "Yangyang is going to visit every antiques dealer, thrift store, and pawn shop in the city." The 'or else' doesn't need to be spoken.

At six A.M. on a Sunday the airport is almost peaceful, the quiet only disturbed by the occasional ring of a phone or whine of a child. Most of the humans wander around in an under-caffeinated haze. They pass a Tim Horton's with a line at least fifteen people deep on the way to the gate. Here and there he catches snatches of magic — luggage charms to make sure they don't get lost, a woman in a velvet tracksuit with a heavy glamour on her face — but nothing to make his skin jump and his pulse race.

Dejun snorts. "You know sometimes it's good to talk about your feelings, right?"

"Are you implying that I have feelings?" Ten gasps. "How dare you."

He ignores Ten's theatrics, hefting his duffle onto his other shoulder. "Dr. Slessinger said it can also be helpful to write things down if you're having difficulty working through something."

"Dr. Slessinger? Don't tell me you go to therapy, too."

"I had a difficult time when we first moved here," Dejun says. "Not having to hide constantly but also not able to be…"

Ten nods when he trails off. It's been over twenty years but as much as vampire money may have paved the road to citizenship it certainly didn't smooth out every bump. 

"Anyway, it was good." He glances at Ten from the corners of his sharp eyes. "You should try it."

Over my undead body, Ten thinks, but he just smiles. "Maybe."

"You and Yangyang could even go together," Dejun says, brightly. "That was really helpful for Kun and I."

His entire being stutters to a stop for a moment, and then he has to jog the three steps it takes to catch up to his bodyguard. "What like, couples counseling?" 

Dejun actually laughs at that, gasping little giggles that make fellow passengers stare at them. 

"More like family counseling," he finally answers when he can speak properly. "It's hard, sometimes, to work for your sire. Especially one like Qian Kun."

There's still over an hour until the sun starts to rise, but already Ten can feel the energy draining out of him. Does Yangyang hate working for him? He doesn't think so, but they've never really talked about it. Not since the first few years, when he was trying to understand his sensitivity and a new, magical world he had been thrust into. 

"Does his eyebrow still do that twitch when he's exasperated?" Ten asks, trying to demonstrate the look he knows so well. For once he would rather talk about Kun.

"Yeah! When he's mad but not like _mad_?"

"That's the one."

Dejun sinks into a chair by their gate with an ungainly yawn. "He just has such high standards. But then he takes on so much work himself you feel bad about complaining, you know?"

"Yeah." It gets stuck in his throat alongside the memory of Kun hunched over his tiny desk for hours on end. He'd barely look up at the touch of Ten's hand along the line of his shoulder or the shell of his ear. Suddenly the topic isn't safe at all. He conspicuously grabs his earphones from his bag and plugs them into his phone. "Try to rest. And sleep on the plane. Tomorrow's going to be a big day."

He closes his eyes and lets the strains of YoYo Ma's Cello Suite No. 1 drive away the buzzing of his own thoughts.

————

The special collections curator meets them at the front desk, her wide hips swaying with the authority that her soft smile disguises. 

"Rhonda McClane," she says, offering her hand. "No relation to John."

She laughs at her own joke, so Ten does, too. 

"Thank you for meeting me on such short notice, Ms. McClane." 

The weather had held long enough for them to make it to Minnesota without issue, but Monday afternoon saw them racing the biting cold up the steps of the Minneapolis Institute of Art while fat flakes drifted from the sky. 

"Rhonda, please. Follow me, gentlemen. They have us all in the basement."

They make innocuous small talk as they head down the elevator to the administration floor. It's not particularly interesting, but Ten does his best to soak in the details. Where they turn, where the lights are. What the security is like. There are cameras in the elevator and the hallway, but nothing in her office.

It's small, little more than a closet turned into a workspace, but her desk is tidy. Just the keyboard and monitor, a cup full of pens, a pad of bright pink post-it notes, and two picture frames of smiling children. Rhonda settles into her chair like it was built for her. "So, what was so important that you two had to fly all the way to the Twin Cities to ask me about it?"

Ten hands her his card. "I work in magical antiquities for private collectors. A few years ago, you had an item on display that one of my clients is particularly interested in. I was hoping you could give me a clue as to its current whereabouts."

"I could have told you that over email," she says with an arch of an eyebrow.

"I find it's much too easy for people to say no over email." Ten smiles.

Rhonda hums, but it's amused. "Alrighty. Dangit. They make us change our passwords every thirty days. Impossible to remember." She pokes a few more keys, frowning at her monitor. "Ope, there we go. Which exhibit did you say it was?"

"The Pain and Suffering exhibit. 2018."

"Some kind of client," Rhonda murmurs. "Do you have a piece number or description?"

Ten pulls out his phone. "No, but I do have a picture."

"Oh, _that_ ," she says with unreserved judgement. Her keyboard clacks under her bright red nails. "Alright, do you want the good news or the bad news."

He looks at Dejun. "Your pick."

"Ah… good news?" 

Rhonda glances up from her computer. "The good news is that piece is owned privately, not part of a museum collection. So you might be able to pry it out of their hands."

"And the bad news?" Ten asks.

"That's about all I can tell you. The donor lent it to the traveling exhibit under the condition of anonymity." She gestures at the #ancientbuttplug on the Instagram caption. "I'm sure you can guess why."

Ten doesn't let his disappointment show. "I'm sure you have their contact information. For insurance or in case of emergency."

"We do," Rhonda acknowledges. "But anonymity means anonymity. It would be unethical for me to give it to you." Her sunny demeanor turns cold.

"Of course." Ten smiles as brightly as he can. "I appreciate your help."

"Is there anything else I can do for you gentlemen?" She turns a practiced no-nonsense gaze on Dejun, who squirms noticeably.

"No, no," Ten says. "Though, maybe you can recommend a good place for dinner?"

Rhonda relaxes again at the change of topic, listing off all her favorite nearby restaurants as she escorts them back up to the main lobby. They even get a "say hi you're in town next time!" and a wave as they grab their coats from the check, bundle back up and make their way into the snow. It's gentle but sticking to the ground, and Ten's wool coat is no match for the Minnesota wind. 

The sun has completely succumbed to the night sky and the grey clouds. Ten smiles, feeling lighter than he has in days. There's something so fulfilling about closing in on his quarry. Probably a leftover instinct from when vampires were real predators.

"Well, that was a bust," Dejun says, teeth chattering. 

Their Uber says she's just around the corner, but Ten's been around long enough not to trust the system. "No, I got what I need. Well, partly." 

"Partly?" 

"Mmhmm," Ten says, watching the black Subaru pull up to the curb. "I could use a drink."

Dejun nods, opening the car door and sliding across the back seat. "What do you mean, partly?"

"Hi guys! The W?" Kelly chirps from the driver's seat. 

"Please," Ten says, closing the door behind him. "And I mean partly."

"Art lovers, huh?" Kelly continues, pulling away from the museum. The Outback's tires crunch over the building snow without an issue. "I always mean to get down here more often."

Dejun frowns, but lets Ten switch conversations without further interrogation. Later, he makes an even more disappointed face as they sip the W's synth. It's some Californian brand Ten has heard of but never particularly enjoyed. Watching Dejun struggle through the full glass is probably the highlight of the day. He gets it; if he was raised on the good stuff, too, he'd be just as picky. But he can't be tonight. He needs his strength.

Outside, snow sparkles under the downtown streetlights. They're the only non-humans in the whole bar, and he can tell they're getting a few looks, though the bartender hadn't batted an eyelash when they placed their order. Of all the industries to deal with the uncanny reckoning, hospitality had been the one to really take it in stride. If he wanted, Ten could take a vacation at a vampire-only resort in the Bahamas.

"Excuse me," a woman purrs, hopping onto the barstool next to Dejun. The chardonnay in her hand is oaky enough that Ten can smell it from feet away. Her hair is dyed a tasteful auburn, brushed bigger than is fashionable, but the pearls around her neck are real. "My friend and I have a bet going."

"Uh…" Dejun stutters.

"A bet?" Ten asks, knowing the answer before he even poses the question. It's not the first time he's gotten this line.

Her blue eyes are lined with fine crows feet that wrinkle as she talks. "I said you had to be," she drops her voice, "vampires. But Sandy disagreed."

A blonde woman, also in her forties or fifties, gives them a quick smile from a table. Her wine-red lipstick perfectly matches her nails. 

Dejun snorts derisively. 

Ten doesn't bother to suppress his grin, lips pulled back to show off his sharp canines. "I'd say Sandy owes you a drink."

She stifles a gasp, almost like she hadn't believed it herself, but recovers quickly, extending a hand to Dejun. "I'm Fiona. Won't you join us for a drink? I believe we have time for one more." 

It is apparently not hard to make Dejun blush with a little synth in him. 

"Go on," Ten urges, "I'd join you but I have plans."

"I… what? I… Plans?" Dejun sputters over the handshake. 

"Just one drink," Fiona says. She doesn't let go of his hand. "I have so many questions."

Ten gestures at the bartender for the check. 

"Sorry," Dejun says, putting his best customer service voice on. It's kind of soft and sexy, Ten will give him that. "I can't. I'm working."

"That's too bad." Fiona pouts a bit, grabbing the pen from the check tray before Ten can. "If that changes, though." She scribbles her number on Dejun's napkin before sauntering back to her friend.

"What the hell," Dejun whispers as they head up to their room. 

"Sorry," Ten says, not apologetic in the least, "you're cute when you're flustered."

There's just the one room for this trip — they really will need to get back to Vancouver as soon as possible, no matter what Ten can find tonight. He can feel the press of the clock on the back of his neck. Only four more days until his deadline is up. Dejun doesn't seem to mind, toeing off his shoes and flopping on the bed closest to the door. 

"You can have the first shower," he offers, his annoyance gone as quickly as it came.

Ten shakes his head, pulling out his black turtleneck from his overnight bag. "No, go ahead. I'm going out soon."

" _We're_ going out soon. Where you go, I follow. Kun made that exceptionally clear."

"Aww, don't sound so excited."

Dejun rolls his eyes. "Lucas said you'd be like this."

Ten raises an eyebrow as he strips off his shirt. "Like what?"

"Bitchy."

He flings his wadded up shirt at Dejun who yelps as it smacks him in the face. "Some bodyguard. Couldn't even see that coming," he snickers.

"Yeah, well, this isn't exactly in my job description," Dejun grouses. He tosses the shirt back. Ten dodges it easily.

"So, what, Kun says jump and you say 'how high'?"

"He's my sire."

Ten snorts, pulling on the tight turtleneck. "Like that means anything."

"It does when it's Kun," Dejun retorts. "I know your sire was fucked up, but I trust mine. If he says this is important, then this is important."

"Whatever." Ten shucks his dress trousers in exchange for stretchy black skinny jeans. 

Dejun chuckles. "Are you going to go rob a bank or something?"

"Just some light breaking and entering." He pauses, pulling out his leather gloves. "And I guess technically espionage? I'm not sure about that one."

That finally makes Dejun sit up. "Wait, what? You're kidding, right?"

"You should have gone home with Fiona." Ten smirks as he pulls on his boots. It's going to be cold as balls, and even vampiric healing can't regrow toes. "Keep the bathroom light off. I'll be back in a bit."

"Ten, you can't… You go, I follow. That's the deal!" 

Checking his gear one last time, Ten saunters towards the dark bathroom. With a wink, he steps into the shadows. "You're welcome to try." 

And then he spins into the darkness.

Shadowdancing isn't an unknown art, but it is rare enough that he's never met another vampire who can do it. Everything he knows, he learned through trial and error. Like how he can't dance into a place he's never seen. Or how he can only go so far into the darkness before his body starts to come apart molecule by molecule.

The Minneapolis Institute of Art is just over a mile from their hotel. Ten retraces the route Kelly, the Uber driver, took, popping out in the shadows between street lamps just long enough to catch his breath and dive back in. The snowflakes that stick to his lashes don't even have time to melt. By the time he's standing next to one of the Institute's massive pillars, he can already feel the fatigue setting in. It's not just the magic, either, but the way he has to concentrate exactly on his destination or risk getting lost. Or not coming out at all.

He shivers as the cold sets in immediately. The snow is several inches deep now; the roads nearly empty but for the rumbling of a plow in the distance. Still, Ten steadies himself, stretching out his sensitivity as far as it will go. 

The main building is too old to have built-in warding, but he can sense some complex arrays emanating from the wings and deep, deep underground. That suits him just fine. They can keep their treasures. He just needs a name.

His next jump has him crouching behind the information desk. He can hear the squeak of regulation shoes as a security guard makes his way across the lobby. It's times like these Ten is the most thankful that he doesn't need to breathe. That gratitude is fleeting, though, as his phone vibrates in his pocket making him flail and knock into a rolling chair. Immediately, the footsteps stop and pivot towards him, a flashlight sweeping over the area.

Ten grits his teeth and sinks into the dark under the desk. 

The first thing he does when he lands in Rhonda's office is pull out his phone and turn off vibrate. He has five missed calls from Dejun already, and his text notification number keeps going up as he watches. Worry wart. 

Ten moves behind her desk and boots up her computer. The password screen blinks back at him. "This was so much easier in the sixties," he whispers to himself. "Okay, Rhonda, don't let me down."

Her desk is just as tidy as it was earlier — no scrap paper in sight, nor anything hidden in the pen holder — but as he lifts the keyboard he spots exactly what he needs. A bright pink post-it with Bertie8*3# scribbled on it blinks up at him. "That's my girl."

He finds the file he needs with just a few keystrokes; not only is Rhonda as meticulous at labeling as she appeared, but Yangyang had taught him about the 'Recently Opened' folder last year. It's been a massive help, personally and professionally. The knit of his mask catches on the corner of his grinning mouth as the scrolls down.

_Donor: Julie Young (credit as 'Private Collector'. See curation notes.)_

Footsteps echo in the hall outside, along with the crackle of radio static and muffled voices. A door nearby opens and closes. Quickly as he can, Ten closes the file and turns off the monitor. The handle turns and he steps into the shadows one final time.

Bingo.


	10. Chapter 10

**__** _"Now, concentrate."_

_The blindfold itched on the delicate skin of his temples. He didn't know how long they had been cooped up in the Master's study, but his head felt like it was going to split apart. His skin twitched as the magic built in the array just a few feet away._

_"Can you feel it?" Master Mo asked._

_"Yes," Chittaphon answered. He sounded tired. He was tired._

_The array roared to life, then settled again, the magic simmering in the air._

_"If you can feel it, you can tell me what it is."_

_The study smelled like stale air, fresh ink, blood, and ozone. His back twinged. Time might have slipped past Master Mo's attention, but his muscles were feeling every extra minute he sat on the low stool. It was almost as bad as Old Man Yao's training. The subject was more interesting, but the punishments…_

_Old Man Yao wished he had Master Mo's creativity._

_He pinched his forearm — anything to keep him focused. The magic crackled across his arms, a buzzing, living thing. "It… it feels like a ward. But not."_

_"I did not ask you what it is not. I asked you what it_ is _."_

_Familiarity dangled at the edge of his consciousness, a word on the tip of his tongue, the notes of a song he'd heard many times. He wanted to move, to stretch, but any lapse in concentration would bring out the Master's fire, so he stayed still. Chittaphon did not need to be taught self-preservation._

_His tongue felt slow and thick. "I…"_

_"What. Is. It?"_

_The flare of heat was a warning._

_"Lightning," Chittaphon stammered. The buzz felt like the quiet moments of a thunderstorm._

_"And? What does it do?"_

_He could hear Master Mo moving to stand behind him once more. His back was taut with newly healed skin, remnants of yesterday's training. Flame danced perilously close to his shoulder blade, but the answer remained an amorphous shape in the fog of his mind._

_"I… don't…"_

_The fire seared a line into his skin, but Chittaphon held his tongue. Screaming just made it worse._

_"Master Mo," Kun's soft voice interrupted from out of nowhere._

_"What?" the Master snapped but the burning stopped as he straightened._

_Chittaphon swallowed hard. There was little he could do about the pain in his skull, not with the array still crackling in the room, but he dug his fingers into his thigh anyway. That helped with the burn, at least._

_"Ah, you asked me to deliver any correspondence right away," Kun said._

_"Excellent." There was the breaking of a seal. Then, "Leave me."_

_He didn't need to be told twice._

————-

There are two flaws with Ten's Minneapolis plan. The first is one he can handle. The snow continues falling overnight, thick and fluffy. Fortunately, the wind dies down, so when they make it to the airport in the early hours of Tuesday morning, the flight back to Vancouver has only been delayed — not cancelled. 

The second, however, is a force of nature he hadn't accounted for. Dejun, it turns out, can hold a grudge to rival even his own ability. He made it back to the hotel cold and rundown, but no worse for wear. On the other hand, Dejun was so red in the face he could have been a tomato in disguise. They haven't spoken since.

"Flight 2136 to San Francisco has been delayed. Your new departure time will be posted soon," the tinny loudspeaker announces. 

Ten sighs checking his watch. Another delay pushes back their landing to sometime after seven P.M.. Being a vampire means he doesn't _need_ sleep the same way he used to, but that doesn't mean that staying awake for a full twenty-four hours is ideal. Especially not after having to expend so much effort overnight. 

"Come on, I'll buy you a drink." 

He nudges Dejun with his knee, and gets up to make his way to the quickly-filling airport bar. His bodyguard follows, pointedly silent. A bleary-eyed businesswoman and her matching rollerbag and laptop case back away from the bar just as they arrive, Ten flashing his fangs at another man who tries to jostle him away from the two available seats. It's not dignified but it's effective. 

The bartender, with the look of a woman who has seen everything, just asks "A or B?"

Dejun wrinkles his nose, but answers, "A."

"Two, please," Ten says with his sunniest smile. "I'm glad to see you haven't suddenly forgotten how to speak. Kun would murder me if I traumatized his progeny that badly."

Dejun stares resolutely ahead. "Oh, so now you care about your safety." 

"I was perfectly safe last night."

"You call," he lowers his voice, "breaking into an art museum _perfectly safe_?"

"I'm here, aren't I?" Ten looks down exaggeratedly at his body. "In one piece. Besides, even if I had gotten caught, _which I didn't_ , they couldn't have held me without help. And now I have what I need to get out of your hair for good. This is a win for everyone."

"You're impossible to argue with, you know that?" Dejun thanks the bartender as she hands them their synth. It's too dark to be good, but he gamely takes a drink anyway. "Now I see why Kun yells so much when you're around."

"Rude."

He shrugs. "If the shoe fits."

The bar is loud, crowded in the way only an airport bar can be before ten A.M.. The woman next to him is arguing with the man next to her about some sort of playoffs. A student is weeping on her phone with her parents, trying to figure out new travel arrangements. There's a blip of shifter magic milling about the concourse — everyone back to work now that the sun is up and the moon is waning. And next to him, the low, cool, hum of Dejun.

"How did you and Kun meet?" he asks. It's not necessarily a polite question. Kun isn't Dejun's new boyfriend, and this isn't the office Christmas party. But the curiosity has been chewing him up inside. Dejun already thinks he's rude so he might as well get some answers.

"In Guangdong. After the war. He found me begging on the side of the road and let me follow him around for a little while."

"No offense, but I really didn't think he'd ever turn anyone. Not with his whole… thing." 

The synth isn't good, but it's nice to have something to do with his hands. Dejun must think the same thing, because he swirls it in the wine glass, watching it run down the sides with a small grin on his face. 

"He didn't want to, but I wouldn't take no for an answer. He made me wait a whole year after he said yes."

"That sounds about right."

"What about you? Of all the people to carry your legacy… Yangyang?"

"What's wrong with Yangyang?" Ten squawks. 

Dejun rolls his eyes at the false outrage. "He's a brat."

"He can't help it. He grew up on John Hughes movies." Ten laughs into his drink. "It, ah, wasn't planned."

"Sounds about right for a man who will break into a museum without telling his bodyguard first."

"If I had told you, you'd try to stop me. We've been over this."

"That's the point." Dejun sighs. "But fine. How'd you even get started dowsing?"

It's Ten's turn to swirl his synth as he collects his thoughts. "I kind of fell into it by accident."

"Do you ever do anything on purpose?" Dejun asks. There's a hint of dismissiveness in it that rankles.

"Are you still in love with Kun?" Ten snaps. 

"Are _you_?" Dejun holds his gaze until Ten looks back to his drink.

"Flight 2136, service to San Francisco will be now leaving from Gate 34," the loudspeaker crackles.

The silence between them hangs until Dejun just drains the last of his synth in one go. "I'll go see if they've updated our departure time."

"Thanks." Ten pulls out his phone and doesn't even glare at the guy who steals Dejun's stool. Such restraint today. It must be the daytime hours. Ten A.M. is really too early to call, really, especially since it's two hours earlier in Vancouver, but he's way too out of fucks to give.

"Ten?" Yangyang answers, groggy. "What's up?"

"I believe this trip is what you'd call an unqualified success."

"Yeah?" He perks up. "You got it?"

"Well. Not it, but a name."

"Phone? Address?"

Ten waves down the bartender for his check, making sure to tip as generously as he would if Dejun was staring over his shoulder. "Well. No. I was interrupted before I could get more than a name."

"That sounds more like a qualified success."

"Julie Young," he says, ignoring Yangyang's barb. "Start pulling everything you can on local ones. I'm still convinced we're in the right spot."

"We better be. Four days, Ten _._ " Yangyang pauses. "Have you spoken to Banks recently?"

"No. Why?"

"I just thought... " he can practically hear Yangyang shake his head. "Don't worry about it. White guys, you know?"

Ten frowns into his phone. "Sure."

"Julie Young. Why couldn't it have been something less generic. Like Beeblebrox Cauliflower or whatever."

"The dowser's lament."

Yangyang sighs, bed sheets rustling. "So, like, when will you be back?"

"Who knows." Ten tucks the phone between his cheek and shoulder, twisting through the crowd at the bar. His roller bag definitely runs over a few toes but the dirty looks roll off him like cheese wheels on an English hill. Victory is imminent. "It's stopped snowing for now, but everyone's trying to get out at the same time."

"Cool." There's a yawn. "Is that it?"

"Julie Young."

"I got it. Can I sleep now?"

He hangs up instead of saying goodbye, but he texts him the name, too, just in case.

**From: The GOAT**  
[10:28 A.M.]  
Oh my god

————-

They get delayed again in San Francisco, first by missing their connection, then by weather conditions in Vancouver. Ten can tell Dejun is getting increasingly agitated, though that doesn't take any special powers of observation. Not when he's stomping around the concourse bookstore, flipping angrily through the piles of bestsellers. At least his grumpiness has been redirected away from Ten. He's still hungry, drained from his adventure and staying up too late — or early, depending on perspective — but he's not paying another fifteen dollars for a glass of terrible synth when he'll be back in Vancouver soon. Dejun would sooner claw his eyes out if he suggested it. 

SFO is also one of the worst airports Ten has ever navigated for international travel, with too much security and too few maps. It feels like a shitty metaphor for his own mental state. 

There are all his boxes surrounding him, spiking out like airport terminals. Enough boxes that they have their own categories now. Repressed memories — Gates A1-50. Work shit and other useless trivia — Terminal B. Unfortunate emotional attachments — Terminal C. 

He steals a glance at Dejun, who has settled down with some science fiction novel. Feelings about your ex-something, now boarding at Gate C37. 

That's a dangerous flight to get on. They're too volatile. Bound to explode at any time. Which probably takes the metaphor too far into bad taste territory, but it's the truth. Ten likes to push and push until Kun pushes back. Loves it when Kun pushes back. Just the thought of it sends a shiver down his spine.

He may not have gone to therapy, but Ten hasn't been entirely ignorant of the strides in introspection. By now he's figured out that he's a _taker_. This is fine — even good — in his professional life. Ten isn't one for giving up, isn't afraid to ask for favors, tracks down his targets like a bloodhound after a bone. He's what Oprah describes as "goal oriented." It's what's made him the best at what he does, no matter what Hathaway says to the contrary.

But in a personal context it's less useful. It's too easy to overstay his welcome, too easy to latch on and suck them dry. And then too easy to be set adrift. 

Worst, is that he seems to only attract _givers_. Johnny always, _always_ answers when he calls. Always goes above and beyond. Always wants to know what he's thinking. Wants to know what _Ten_ wants. Wants to give it to him. 

And Kun. Kun is… 

Well, he's the kind of person who doesn't know how to stop giving. It makes entirely too much sense that Kun has managed to work his way to the top of the food chain in another Master's coterie. He probably didn't even intend to. He probably just wanted to make sure people stayed fed and housed and out of trouble. Because that's what he does. He'd work himself to the bone for everyone else, let them drain him dry if that's what they needed. Let them drive him crazy.

It's definitely for the best that they're getting the fuck out of Vancouver. Good synth — Kun's synth, his heartbeat reminds him — aside, it's just fraught with too many temptations.

He closes his eyes, trying to relax into his soothing 'beach sounds' playlist, but the crash of the waves sound like static. The hair on his arms stands straight up as the magic envelops him. His eyes fly open but it's too dark to see; there's nothing but the feel of the chair cutting into the backs of his thighs, the sound of Dejun's book closing with a thud. The magic slips down his throat as he gasps, viscous and choking.

"Ten. Ten!" Dejun hisses. 

He coughs, blood trickling from the corners of his mouth. The migraine hits next, a hammer and tongs using his brain as an anvil. Distantly, Ten can hear a pained groan. In the dark it takes a moment to realize that's him.

"Where's your oil?" Dejun asks, patting him down. 

Like bursting through the surface of a greasy ocean, the magic breaks and Ten is left blinking in the light of Terminal 3.

"Fuck," Ten whispers. With a trembling hand he wipes at his mouth, not caring about the blood smears on his sleeve. "Left inside pocket."

Dejun uncaps the vial shakily, dabbing some oil on his fingers and rubbing it against Ten's temples. Immediately, the throbbing eases, not gone, but dulled to something manageable. "I thought Lucas had been exaggerating, but I guess not."

"I guess not," Ten agrees, exhausted.

"Come on," Dejun says, hefting both of their bags. "Let's get something warm in you. Do I need to be worried about anything…" he looks around at their flight-mates trying to ignore Ten's scene, "else?"

Ten grimaces, his sensitivity skittering around like a frightened woodland animal. There's nothing he can do to bring his concentration to bear — he was tired before the episode and now his head feels like an overwatered melon, just waiting to split. "I can't tell," he finally admits.

"Okay," Dejun replies, accepting the answer readily. Like it's not a huge deal that Ten's had one of his magical limbs temporarily chopped off. 

He's not a big man, not like Lucas, but Dejun puts his eyebrows to good use, glaring them a path to the nearest restaurant bar. _Givers_ , Ten thinks. They're all such givers.

————

By the time Ten flips on the light in the condo it has been almost a full sixteen hours of travelling. Which is why, he thinks, he should be forgiven for letting out a high-pitched shriek when he sees a shirtless Catherine Wong straddling his progeny on the couch. 

The next few seconds are a flurry of activity — Dejun darting in front of Ten like there's a threat, his cheeks going bright pink when he finally evaluates the situation. 

"Fuck," Cat shouts, scrambling off Yangyang's lap. 

Yangyang groans doing his best to cover his very noticeable erection in a pair of… Ten's sweatpants?

"Are those my joggers?" Ten asks. And then, "What the fuck is she doing here?"

" _She_ is leaving," Cat says. She pulls a green jumper over her head.

"No," Yangyang whines, reaching for her hem. "Stay."

She huffs out a shocked laugh. "Stick around to get yelled at a second time? No thank you." He pouts and she bends down to kiss his forehead. "I have an early meeting with my thesis advisor tomorrow anyway. Call me, 'kay?"

"'Kay," Yangyang says, watching forlornly as she darts past Ten and Dejun for the door. The minute it shuts he puts on his biggest, most innocent grin. "I, uh, need to do laundry."

"Oh, so that makes it okay for you to get your rocks off in _my clothes_ with a fucking _witch_?" 

"Woah, Ten, maybe you should take it easy," Dejun interjects, "you've had a long couple days."

He whirls on the other man, teeth bared. "This is between me and my progeny."

"Okay! Okay! Chill!" Dejun holds up his hands. "I'm gonna go heat up some synth."

The open floor plan doesn't put him out of earshot as he pulls a clean pot off the drying rack — it doesn't even put him out of sight, but Ten has bigger things to worry about. Like the way Yangyang is trying to slink away. 

"Where the fuck do you think you're going?"

"Laundry?" Yangyang says, like there's a right answer he can give.

Anger flares hot and urgent inside of him. His hands shake as he wipes his palms against the rough fabric of his jeans. "I don't give a rat's arse about the fucking joggers, Yangyang. There was a _witch_ in our _house!_ "

"The fuck, Ten?" Yangyang snarls back. "I know you've brought home your dates before. Like, pretty much every time."

"Not _witches_."

"So Cat's a witch. So fucking what? So is Hendery and you had no problem going to _his_ house."

"I'm not fucking Hendery, am I?"

"Oh my _god_. Just let it go. Cat's cool, I'm cool, we're cool."

"No, we're not fucking _cool_." Ten throws his hands in the air. "This is my fault, honestly. I sheltered you too much. We might like to call ourselves immortals, but we're fucking _not_. Do you know what an angry coven of witches can do, Yangyang? Do you know what will happen if you are suddenly _not cool_?"

Yangyang just crosses his arms, sullen as any teenager. 

"In China, it was at least quick. Not painless, but quick. An array to trap you. And then a stake to the heart, and a blade to the neck. Can't heal a decapitation." He's ranting now, pacing back and forth while Yangyang refuses to make eye contact. His head hurts like there's a buzzsaw going in his frontal lobe, but he can't stop.

"The Europeans, though. They had _Christ_ to contend with. So it was always a possession, right? The coven would start the rumor, really get it going. And when they trapped you — it wouldn't just be death. First it was exorcism. And that wouldn't work, it would be torture. And then, when you were weak and bloodless and still carried the soul of Satan or whatever, they would trap you in a box and wrap it with chains and crosses for days. Weeks sometimes. And then. Only then, after they opened it and you could do nothing to stop them, then they would take your heart and your head."

"First of all, that was like, the fifteen hundreds," Yangyang says. "Second, those are old wives tales."

"They're our history!" 

"Yeah and we live _now_! Fuck, Ten, just because you don't want to be happy doesn't mean the rest of us should be miserable for eternity."

"What the fuck does that mean?"

"You know exactly what I mean." Yangyang stands. 

They're basically the same height — always have been — but it strikes him right now as they're glaring at each other. If they fought, strength against strength, fang against fang, for the first time Ten's not actually sure that he would win. 

"Spell it out for me," Ten growls. 

"Fine. You want to know what I think? I think you have so many trust issues they could be seen from _space._ I think this has nothing to do with Cat, nothing to do with fucking witches, and everything to do with the fact that you want to hop on Kun's dick but you won't let yourself. And because you can't get some, no one else can," Yangyang spits. 

"You don't know what the fuck you're talking about."

Yangyang rolls his eyes. "Okay. Whatever."

He tries to brush past him, but Ten grabs him by the shoulder and pushes him back onto the couch. Yangyang's fangs flash and Ten has to laugh.

"Oh, you think you're something, don't you."

His eyebrow just bounces up into his hairline, the way it always does when he thinks Ten is being ridiculous. 

Maybe he is. Maybe the travel is getting to him. The exhaustion. The headaches. The fact that every single time he opens his eyes he's not sure if he'll be able to see, or hear, or think and he still has no clue why. Ten rubs at his temples. He could use more of his miracle oil but it's still in Dejun's pockets somewhere.

"Are we done?" Yangyang asks, like the answer is already a yes. "I told Cat I'd call her."

And then the anger comes roaring back. "Have you heard a single fucking word I've said? You do this every time I tell you no."

"I might not be an elder yet, but I'm not actually a baby. I'm like sixty. I can date who I want."

"You can date anyone but a witch."

"Says fucking who?" Yangyang stands again, jaw tight, like he does want to lash out.

Ten plants his feet. "Says your fucking _sire._ "

"My sire?" Yangyang sneers. "Since when have you cared about my goddamn bloodline? What happened to 'I don't do Masters, Yangyang'?"

"Since now!" Ten shouts. The pain has lights dancing in front of his eyes, but at least nothing goes black.

Yangyang shakes his head. "You're just as full of bullshit as the rest of them. Ready to toss those morals aside the minute I question you, huh? Some fucking sire I got stuck with."

"Well, if I had known what a complete brat you are I wouldn't have bothered turning you," Ten spits.

The moment the words leave his mouth, Ten wishes he could reel them back in. Yangyang stumbles back, real hurt flashing across his face. His heart clenches in his chest as Yangyang's expression tightens back into something wary, like a wounded animal.

"Yeah," he says. "Sometimes I wish I were dead, too."

"Yangyang…"

"No." He backs up until he can go around the couch and avoid Ten completely. "I'm out of here. I'll stay at Dejun's tonight or something. There are twenty-seven adult Julie Youngs in the greater Vancouver area. There's a list on the table. Have fun with that."

It's as if he's paralyzed, trapped in an array of his own making, just listening as Yangyang grabs his phone, shrugs on his coat and boots, and slams the door behind him. They bicker, they bicker _a lot_ , but they don't fight. Not like this. Not for fourteen years. He wonders if it will be like it was then; Yangyang refusing to take his calls for weeks until Ten stopped trying, then showing up on his doorstep eleven months later. 

"Do you want some synth?" Dejun asks quietly, prodding him out of his stupor. 

He nods, unable to trust his voice, and just follows him back to the kitchen, where Dejun ladles the liquid into a mug for him. It's nice and proper — they always just pour it straight from the pot and sometimes it splatters on the counter. It makes Ten ache for the embrace of a mother he hasn't known since he was a small child. 

"You need to apologize," Dejun says.

As if that isn't obvious. Ten scrubs a hand down his face. "What I need is to find our Julie Young so we can go the fuck home. Do you still have my oil?"

Dejun nods, face a perfect picture of judgement. He could be in the dictionary for it. But at least after he drops the vial in Ten's outstretched palm he retreats to his bedroom. Just like Yangyang said, there's a list sitting next to his open laptop on the small dining room table. From the scribbled stars and underlined notes, Ten can tell that he'd already started whittling the list down, just like a good apprentice would.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

With a sigh, Ten retrieves his own laptop. The last thing he needs is Yangyang accusing him of not caring about his privacy on top of everything else. First, he fires off the necessary email to Banks. They're close; he needs funds authorization before he can begin negotiations. 

It's almost nine in the morning in London, so he's not surprised when the reply comes quickly, twenty-four hour account access included and a brief reminder of the budget. Ten rolls his eyes. People like Lady Burnett-Cecil had more money than they could ever spend in a lifetime.

He cracks his knuckles and gets to work, missing Yangyang immediately, and not only for his skills. The commentary, the banter while they work, all of that is gone from the house, too. Which isn't to say that his skills aren't sorely missed. Ten learned how to scour books and maps and scrolls for what he needs. The internet is as deep and vast as the ocean, and often he gets lost down search threads that lead nowhere. Still, he's able to pretty quickly cross off three of Yangyang's Julies — a realtor, a teacher, and a college student — thanks to social media. 

And at around four in the morning, eyes bleary from squinting at the screen, Ten finds her.

It's not easy but that's what makes her ping in his gut. Rich people are harder to find, if they don't want to live a public life. For every Zhong Chenle there are twenty Master Kwon's. Ninety percent of the references to her come from articles published the month before her app, Serenitee, was acquired by a massive athleisure company. 

Private millionaire who lives in Victoria? He'd bet his own foolishly large sum of money that he'd found her. 

It took almost another full hour to track down reliable contact information for her assistant, but by the time the night was over, he had dashed off a second, far more important, email.

Now, there was nothing to do but wait and hope.


	11. Chapter 11

**__** _The next time he saw Albrecht, he was going to actually murder the man. He did his best to stick to the crowds, blend in with the East Berlin nightlife, not draw any attention. It wasn't like he had the right papers. If anyone caught him it would be all "Spy! Spy! Spy!" and then he'd have to spend even more energy getting away._

_Ten made his way through the crowded cafe with his decoy beer, sipping at it even though it made his stomach churn. He plopped down at the only unoccupied tiny metal table on the patio. There was only one chair. If Albrecht ever deigned to show up he would just have to make due. At least the summer evening was pleasant. Not warm enough to make him shed his jacket, but not cold enough to make him regret the thin cotton of his shirt._

_All around him the city's remaining intellectuals — if they could be called that, even, as they were all beautiful twenty-something students with nary a degree between them — chattered on in rapid-fire German. One of the youths made accidental eye contact. Skinnier and shorter than his friends, he stood out as the only other Asian man in the cafe, Chinese probably, given the politics. He quickly looked back to his beer, laughing at some joke Ten didn't catch._

_Maybe Ten could feed later._

_His watch read nearly ten P.M., two hours after they said they would meet. The students were getting rowdier, drunker and louder. In all likelihood Albrecht had good reason to stay away. Neighbors were encouraged to report on neighbors, after all. And if he was the neighbor who only went out at night, well, that would be something to report. With a sigh and a grimace, Ten drained his beer. Another dead end. His client was not going to be happy._

_The student caught his eye once more as he walked past, but if Albrecht was outed, Ten wasn't going to stick around long enough to eat._

_Ten did his best to stay on side streets as he wandered back to the wall. The closer he got the fewer people he saw out and about, the less the city seemed to care for its own upkeep. What had been thriving residential areas were now rundown, occupied by people who couldn't afford to be anywhere else. There were few places he could cross safely — too many bright lights — but he'd been to Berlin enough over the years to have a favorite picked out. He turned down another narrow alley, heading in that direction when he heard it. Hesitant footsteps._

_He ducked around the corner, sinking into the shadow there. He popped out in the doorway of a building he'd just passed, half a block behind his tail. Even in the dark he could see the red of the student's sweater. The boy spun around, frowning, and then, impossibly, his gaze locked on to Ten again._

_"Who are you?" he calls in German._

_Ten's jaw dropped. Panicked, he jumped back through the shadow, landing where he'd been before. The student isn't hesitant now. The footsteps hit the pavement in a jog. Ten threw himself into a sprint. Only a few more blocks until he couldn't be followed._

_"Stop!" the boy yelled. "Wait!"_

_If he could, he'd just dance away. But he needed that extra energy for the crossing — it was farther than he really liked to go. Harder to keep it together. Still safer than trying to get forged papers. Though as the student started to close the gap between them he was forced to reconsider that position._

_One more turn and he would be ready to shadowdance. Ten flung himself around the corner. Voices at the end of the block had him immediately ducking into another doorway. The boy wasn't so lucky, barrelling around the corner. The patrol snapped to attention, pistols out as he skidded to a stop._

_"Where are you going?" One of the officers shouts. "Show us your papers."_

_In the moonlight, the student blanched. He fumbles for his wallet as they advance. "I'm a student exchange. I go to Humboldt."_

_The officer stepped forward, but the rest of them kept their pistols trained on him. "And why were you running?"_

_"There… there was a man," the boy stuttered. His eyes darted towards Ten's hiding spot._

_"You were being chased? That is your story?" The officer squinted dubiously at his identity card. "Henrich, does that sound like a likely story?"_

_"No, sir."_

_"Henrich, can you think of a reason a student would be so far from his university at this time of night?"_

_"I can, sir."_

_"Oh?"_

_"Defection, sir."_

_The officer tapped the ID card against his chin. "Yes, I thought so, too."_

_"No," the student protested, "I wasn't. I was following a man."_

_"A man? I see no man. You're a bold liar, boy."_

_"I swear, he's," the student's face screwed up in concentration. Time seemed to slow as he spun around to point directly at Ten. "Over there…"_

_And then there was a gunshot, echoing loud through the streets, and the choked off grunt of sudden pain. The officer rounded on his man with the too-quick trigger finger. Ten didn't think; one moment he was in the doorway, and the next he was rising from the shadows they cast._

_"Go," he barked in his bad German, fangs glinting as the panicked patrol scrambled away from him. "Or die."_

_With one confirming look at their officer, the men scattered into the night. On the ground, the student clutched his stomach, blood pumping from his wound, dark and tempting. His eyes fluttered as Ten knelt next to him._

_"You sound like drums," he gasped. His voice already rattled with death. "Who are you?"_

_"This is bad. You will die soon," Ten said, struggling for the words. "I can make you live. But you will not be a man."_

_The student shuddered, pain wracking his body. "I don't want to die."_

_"Okay. Okay." Ten bent over him, heart thumping in his chest. He was an elder, but he'd never tried this before. Never even wanted to. "I'm sorry. This will hurt."_

————-

After how long it took him to fall asleep, Ten supposes he should be grateful that he doesn't wake until the sun is starting to set. He can hear the click of the wind aggressively blowing sleet against the window in his room still; another day of terrible winter weather. Despite the cold battering at the glass, he feels warm under his blanket nest. Cozy. His blood heats him through like a cup of tea on a bitter night.

He can even feel his toes. 

Something's off. 

It takes a good five minutes of debate, but finally Ten wraps a blanket around himself and goes to investigate. Sure enough, Kun's stretched out on the couch, reading something on an iPad. In another life, he would have grey streaks in his hair and the same cable-knit jumper, a pair of wire rimmed glasses perched on his nose. Their bones would creak as Ten crawled into his lap, curling up against his chest. He'd try to read along but it would be dull — some work report — and it wouldn't take long for Ten to fall back asleep.

In that life, he wouldn't feel pulled to him by the magic in their blood. It would be something older even, and simpler. And maybe then Ten could take what he wanted without having to worry about the consequences.

In this life, though, Kun glances up, his brown eyes framed by the blond wisps of his hair and entirely too tender for how emotionally bruised Ten feels. 

"Hey. We didn't mean to wake you."

A quick glance shows Lucas bent over his phone at the table, scarfing down half of the biggest sandwich he's ever seen. If he didn't know definitively that Lucas was a werewolf, he'd suspect him of being of some sort of naga descent with how wide his jaw stretches. It's half grotesque, half impressive. 

"You didn't." Ten settles into the opposite end of the couch, more blanket than person. Kun has to bend his knees to make room. The polite thing to do would have been to take one of the armchairs. It's just that they're not as comfortable, he tells himself. It's partly true. "Dejun back to work today?"

"Wednesday is weekly inventory."

"Does he like it?" Ten asks. He has to clear his throat to get rid of the final vestiges of sleep. His voice still sounds reedier than usual. "Working at the bar?"

"I trust him to tell me if he didn't," Kun answers. "Dejun likes to be active. And bossy. It works for him."

"Good. That's good." Silence falls between them, ignoring the sound of sleet against the sliding glass door to the balcony, and the satisfied crunch of Lucas enjoying his pre-dinner. It rides the fine line between comfortable and stretched taut, just waiting for one of them to push it in one direction or another. Eventually, the weight of it presses too hard on his impatience. He nudges Kun's foot with his own. "Why a bar? It doesn't feel very _you_."

Kun smiles like he knows exactly what that means. "Master Kwon thought it was important for her elders to 'invest in the community,'" he makes air quotes, "to foster goodwill. She was right, too. We got here not too long after the borders opened and it was… tense. A bar seemed an easy enough thing to start with. It kept Sicheng and Dejun out of trouble while I worked on my doctorate. And," he shrugs, a roll of shoulders that reminds Ten exactly how wide they can be, "I like jazz."

The answering grin that creeps across his face is far too candid, like every thump of his beating heart on display. He buries himself deeper into his blankets as if they can protect him from his own affectionate impulses. "Do your employees know you're a pretentious, over-educated twat?"

"They count on it." He smirks.

All the duvets in the world could not protect him from the bolt of heat that curl of lips sends through him. His Adam's apple bobs against the soft fabric as he swallows. The sweats he sleeps in are old, the elastic stretched to breaking, but suddenly they feel entirely too confining. He adjusts his swaddling again, hoping to hide how Kun's confidence is still so affecting.

From the light dancing in his eyes, Ten doesn't think he's succeeded.

"Sicheng," Ten blurts out, trying to latch onto anything but the way Kun's looking at him. "He's older than you. By like. A lot."

"He is," Kun acknowledges with the quirk of an eyebrow. "And?"

"Doesn't he want to be in charge?"

Much like the rest of humanity, vampiric culture isn't a monolith. Different traditions dictate leadership — and most have evolved over the years. But unlike humanity, there's an inherent magic to contend with. And where magic is involved, so is power. Age is not a guarantee of power; Ten's own magic is defensive in nature, ill-suited to running a coterie if he wanted to. Even so, elders tend to be the ones giving orders.

Kun tips his head back and _guffaws_. "No, no he does not. Pretty much anything but that."

"It was just a question," Ten huffs.

"You're a lot alike, actually."

Jealousy stabs him unexpectedly in the gut. Alike how? Alike in that they spent fifty years only relying on each other? Alike in that he knows exactly how to push Kun's buttons? Alike in that Sicheng has had bruises the shape of Kun's fingertips linger on his skin? Ten frowns into his blanket.

A socked foot pokes him in the shin. "You'd both rather be in bed all day."

"I work!" Ten protests, poking back. It's hard to do, wrapped up as he is, but his determination sees him through.

"So does Sicheng," Kun chuckles, trapping his foot between his calves.

He wiggles, but his foot doesn't come free. "I work hard."

"Who do you think does all the choreography for the princess parties?" Kun's legs are warm and strong.

"Well," Ten says with a sniff, "He works for _you_. I'm an entrepreneur."

"Technically, he works for Dejun."

"You trust him with a lot of responsibility for someone who isn't even an elder, yet. He's been with you, what, eightyish years now?"

Kun's cheeks go pink. "Only turned for seventy-five. Everyone grows at their own pace."

"Qian Kun," Ten says, unable to keep the delight from his voice, "were you a late bloomer?"

"I was within the realm of average." 

"Oh, is that right? I didn't think you were capable of average."

"I don't make a habit of it." Kun's eyebrow lifts in challenge. 

His knee falls to the side, just a natural consequence of how he's leaning back against the other arm of the couch. Ten's gaze tracks it like it's an invitation. His jeans aren't skinny, but still strain across his thighs. The navy jumper pulls as he stretches to put the iPad on the coffee table and Ten eyes fall on the flash of belly like a starving man on a steak. 

Of course, the way Kun's mouth turns up means he's been caught looking. His cheeks heat, but there's no mischief in the way Kun looks back — not even a challenge. It's dark intensity, the anticipation before fang scrapes across skin. 

The blanket falls off his shoulders as Ten's grip goes lax. It might be falling apart, but he can tell that Kun appreciates the way the stretched out collar of his old sweatshirt hangs off his neck, hinting at collarbone. He's not sure, as they stare at each other, which of them is the cat and which the mouse. Maybe they're both prey today. 

Ten leans forward, hand on pressing down on Kun's ankle. The couch squeaks softly as his weight shifts. 

"Wow!" Lucas says, overly loud. "I ate that too quickly. I think I'm going to lie down _in my bedroom_ if you need me."

He grabs his hand back like it's been burned as Kun scrambles to sit in a normal, upright position. 

"So, uh," Kun says, sheepish, "Yangyang says hi."

The sound that comes out of Ten's mouth is the furthest thing from sexy. Whatever arousal hung in the air is soured by the taste of his own embarrassment. "No he doesn't."

"No, he doesn't," Kun admits. "But I came over to let you know he's safe. He's at mine. When I left he was practicing Swedish or something on his phone."

"Danish," Ten corrects. "He finished Swedish in March."

"Yeah?"

"He Duolingos when he's bored. He's fluent in pretty much every Germanic and Romance language at this point. And of course, Mandarin, Canto, Korean, and Japanese." Kun looks suitably impressed. Pride flares small but potent in his chest. 

"I can't believe you sired the one person on the planet who learns faster than you do." 

Ten shakes his head. "I'm no scholar. Not like you, Kun-ge," he tries to tease. It falls flat.

Kun's gaze lands on him again with an earnestness that has him reaching for his blankets. "You're clever, Ten. So, so clever. You don't need a degree to see that. You wouldn't be alive if you weren't. Wouldn't be _here_."

It's too much. His heart hammers against his fragile ribs. One of these days Kun is going to break him apart from the inside and Ten isn't sure if he'll be able to put himself back together again. Again.

"Thanks for looking out for Yangyang," he says instead of something really stupid. "We'll be out of your hair soon."

"You can stay as long as you need, Ten. I hope you know that." Kun reaches out and squeezes one of his feet, reassuring. Like that is a thing they do now. His blood riots. 

He coughs, trying to keep his voice light. "Well, hopefully that will only be a day or two. For me, anyway. I can't… What Yangyang does is," Ten's throat works, "his own business."

"So soon?" Kun's thumb sweeps over the arch of Ten's foot, sending shivers all the way up his spine to the top of his head.

"Yeah." He's too hot. It's hot in here. Why is his blanket so stifling? It makes it impossible to concentrate between how his brain berates him about Yangyang and his body aches to be even closer to the one man he absolutely should not mess with. "I think I'll be able to get my hands on the piece, well, fuck. I slept so late. Tomorrow, if I'm lucky."

Ten doesn't miss the way Kun flinches, his hand going still. 

"If it's money, I'll pay it."

"What?"

"This invention is dangerous," Kun sighs. "I might not know what exactly it does but I think… I think it might be my fault that it exists. So, if it's money you want, I'll pay it." His hand comes up to play with the chain around his neck, the way it always does when he's nervous. "I just want you to be safe."

"Kun, what do you mean it's your fault?"

His fingers resume stroking again, though now it feels more like he's trying to comfort himself. "I don't know exactly, but Master Mo, he ah. He turned me a couple decades before you. I don't know why. I think he thought it'd be useful to have an assistant. He definitely wasn't prepared for my objections to how we fed. I just thought there had to be a better way."

"You found a better way," Ten murmurs.

"Money found a better way." Kun chuckles. "I just make it taste good."

"What you do is important, Kun. For everyone. Not just us. It gives people choices."

His smile is grateful, but still wry. "Master Mo didn't like it at first. But after a few years, when he saw I wasn't wasting away, something changed. He had me doing research. The limits of immortality. Anything we could find on blood magic. Stuff like that. And then there was the girl."

Ten's heart clenches. Kun looks like he's seeing ghosts, like his memories haunt him at night, too. It makes him want to pull him into his arms and wrap the blanket around them both. But that way lies madness, so Ten just stays put, letting himself be absently petted.

"She was young, maybe fourteen or fifteen. I didn't even know he'd grabbed her until he asked me to bring him food. Real food. She was human. But," Kun swallows. "Like you. She could feel us. Feel magic. She screamed for a week and I… did nothing. I did nothing to stop his experiments."

"He would've killed you, too."

"I know. I know. Mary drilled that one into my head." He holds onto Ten's foot like a lifeline. "'The technique requires refinement.' That's all he said to me. And then a decade later, we found you."

Fear lumps in his throat. "Why didn't you ever tell me this?"

"I don't know. No." Kun finally lifts his hand just to scrub over his face. "I do. At first, I was scared. But by the end, I was being selfish. I thought, foolishly, that I could protect you. That if you knew, you'd leave."

"Kun," Ten whispers, but he doesn't know how to follow it up. He probably would have left. Survival is his number one instinct. Anger tries to spark in his belly but it's drowned out by the anguish on Kun's face. 

"I chased you away, anyway."

"Hey, look at me," Ten says. It's a mistake to look into those big, sad eyes. It makes him want to do stupid things, like crawl into his lap and cradle his jaw. Maybe stroke his blond hair to see if it's as soft as it looks. Pull him to his chest and fall asleep. Instead he clears his throat. "I forgive you, okay? It was fucked up. What happened to me. To _us_. Mo Hengzhi happened to both of us. And I forgive you."

Kun looks down at his hands again. "You don't have to." 

"I know I don't have to, dummy." Ten reaches out and pinches his side almost on reflex. It's strange how easy things can be when he lets them. He smirks at the yelp and subsequent glare. "Like you could make me do anything I don't want to."

His hand slaps at Ten's knee but then it lands there a second time and stays. His blood burns once again. "You haven't changed at all."

"That's not true," he pouts. He doesn't miss the way Kun's gaze drops to the jut of his bottom lip. "I'm way better at getting out of trouble now."

"Better at getting into it, too, I think."

"That depends on your definition of trouble." 

He shouldn't, but he's running on instinct now, driven by the fire in his veins and the way Kun's eyes go dark as Ten smiles at him, slow and inviting. Kun is right, at least about this; Ten has never been good at denying himself what he _really_ wants. It may be stupid but his whole week, whole month, has been a mess — what's one more bad decision to add to the pile?

Ten sways forward and then, suddenly, Kun is gone. He stands over him, shaking his head. 

"Chittaphon, I… we…" He swallows and runs a hand through his hair. "Right now trouble sounds like you running head first into a trap set by our sire."

He wants to fucking scream. His head hits the back of the couch with a thump, watching Kun pace the living room with one cracked eye. The man can't stop playing with the necklace under his sweater, gripping it like it's the only thing keeping him grounded. 

"It's not a trap if I know it's there."

"That's not how it works _at all_." 

"Kun," Ten sighs. He's getting tired of having this conversation. "If all of this is just an elaborate scheme by Mo Hengzhi, finding this device might be the best way to draw him out."

"And then what?"

"I'll think of something. I always do."

"That's not a plan!" Kun plants his hands on his hips, looking every inch a disappointed dad. It's hotter than it should be.

Ten shrugs. "Plans go wrong."

"What does that even mean?" When Ten doesn't answer, Kun switches tactics. "You don't have to do this."

"And you don't have to protect me anymore."

"I know I don't _have_ to," Kun replies, but his brow softens from annoyance to something Ten can't read. Doesn't want to read. "You get that, right?"

The words land on his chest like a tonne of bricks. He's sure if he runs his hand over it he'll find broken ribs. It certainly feels like shards of bone have been driven, shrapnel-sharp, into his heart. He looks away first. "I refuse to live like a scared little animal ever again. I need to know." 

Kun sighs. "I want to help. I do. But I don't want to watch you destroy yourself. I don't know if I can do that."

"I wasn't planning on it."

"Well," he lets out a wry chuckle, "plans go wrong, eh?"

The words dry up between them, leaving only the gentle drone of the wards against his skin and the synchronized pulse of their blood. 

"I should go," Kun finally says. "You know how to find me if you need me."

"Thanks," Ten says. "It means a lot."

Kun tries for a smile but it doesn't reach his eyes. "And you should call Yangyang."

Ten's own smile is brittle. "I will. Promise. Sometimes he just needs a little space."

"Okay." Kun nods.

"Okay," Ten says. 

If his life was one of the dramatic romances Yangyang pretends to hate, Kun's legendary restraint would break. He would pounce and capture Ten's lips in a searing kiss, the kind that makes toes curl and grandmothers gasp in the theater. 

But his life isn't a romance. And with another nod, Kun tears his gaze away, and leaves.

————

It takes a good fifteen minutes before Ten moves from his spot on the couch. His first item is, of course, checking his phone, and then spending another two minutes berating himself for the phone call he missed at two P.M.. The nocturnal life can be a bitch when you're trying to run a business.

Fortunately, her admin picks up when he calls, even though it's well past the normal working hours. 

"Hello, Ms. Gregory?"

"Yes?"

"This is Mr. Lee. The antiques dealer. I apologize for the late call," he starts. 

"Oh, no worries, Mr. Lee. Call me Dana," she replies, almost too cheerful for someone still working at nearly seven P.M. "Julie was open to meeting. She won't be back in the office until Friday, though."

"Unfortunately, I'm on something of a deadline. Would it be possible to meet her earlier? I'm willing to travel."

"Let me check with her. She's finishing up her staybatical."

"Staybatical?"

"Sorry, it's like a mini sabbatical where you stick close to home in case you're needed. Everyone on Julie's team takes one every six months."

"Isn't that just a vacation?"

Dana titters. "I'll tell you what Mr. Lee. Let me see if I can get a hold of Julie. Is it okay if I call you back a little later? _"_

"Of course."

"Talk to you soon!"

Sometimes his life feels like a fever dream. Lucas wanders back into the kitchen, clearly on the phone with some sort of delivery driver. He's never going to be used to the sheer quantity of food shifters pack away. With a sigh, he dials the second number he needs to call. It's the middle of the night in London, but as long as Banks checks his voicemail, the timing will work out just fine. 

Surprisingly, after just a few rings, the man picks up. "Mr. Lee?"

There's soft chatter in the background, the muted ambiance of a wine bar or private club. Ten wouldn't put it past Banks to be one of _those_ types. "I'll need an extension on the account access. Another twenty-four hours." 

"You're running out of time, Mr. Lee."

"Have I ever let you down before?"

Someone murmurs just out of earshot of Banks' phone. "Ah, yes. Do you have Oban? Fine, then Crown. Double, yes," he tells them and then turns his attention back to Ten. "See that you don't."

The call ends as abruptly as it started. Lucas plops down on the couch next to him. "Mind if I put on the Canucks game?"

Ten nods. Even after all that sleep, he feels drained, wrung-out and limp as an old wash cloth. He doesn't know if he's talked this much in the last five years. It's nice, actually, to have the sounds of skates and the shouts of the crowd noise trickling through to fill up the empty space in his brain, even though he has no idea what's going on.

Lucas' eyes flick to his face when the game finally cuts to commercial. "So you and Kun, huh?'

He grunts. "What about it?"

"Are you guys, like, dating now?"

"What do you think?" he snaps. Or tries too. It comes out too tired to be anywhere close to biting.

Lucas just grins affably and returns his attention to the game. And his phone, which seems to light up with a new notification every two seconds. He laughs at one, glancing back at Ten.

"What?" 

"Nothing."

"You can't look at me and laugh and then not tell me why," Ten whines.

"It's nothing," Lucas protests.

"I'm your boss!"

Lucas laughs and it echoes around the room. "Jungwoo said you're a fuckboy."

"A fuckboy! Wait, who is Jungwoo?"

"My roommate. He works at Nectar, too."

"Some guy I've never met is calling me a fuckboy?" Ten squeaks. 

The way Lucas' shoulders shrug show he's probably not going to join Ten's objections. "I mean, there was the Johnny thing. And now you're making out with Kun."

"Nothing happened with Johnny!"

Lucas gives him a look that's more skeptical than Ten assumed could ever grace his guileless face.

Ten sighs. "Okay, fine, nothing much happened with Johnny. And I didn't make out with Kun!"

"Yeah but there were heavy makeout _vibes_." He taps one of his large ears. "Wolf senses are a blessing and a curse."

"Oh my god," he sounds just like Yangyang. "Wow. Wow. Tell Jungwoo he's the fuckboy."

"Whatever you say, bossman." A horn blares from the TV, making both of them jump; Ten in surprise, Lucas in joy. "My boys!"

"Just for that, I'm cheering for… the scary cat men."

"The Florida Panthers."

"They have an ice hockey team in Florida?"

"Two." His phone buzzes again. "Ooh. Dinner."

"You just ate."

"I'm a growing boy."

Ten grouses to himself as Lucas goes to grab his food. Technically, they aren't supposed to separate, but Kun's wards are top notch. Just like everything else he does. Ten sighs and gets up to get himself some food, too. It's not until he's pouring the synth in the pot that he realizes just how deeply he's tied himself to Kun in just these few weeks. Shelter. Food. Even Lucas. And now, Yangyang's sleeping at Kun's house.

Without him even realizing it, Kun has found every vulnerable spot Ten has. One command and he could crush him, pierce Ten's heart and remove his head. He could do it without even trying. 

His own phone rings, dragging him out of his mental rabbit hole.

"Hello, Mr. Lee?" Dana chirps out the greeting.

"Hello, Ms. Gregory"

"I have some good news. Julie would be happy to meet with you at her home tomorrow. Can you do around three? She's in Victoria, so I know that can be a trek."

"Three is perfect." He'll leave home now if he has to. Anything to end this.

"Great! I'll email you the address and let her know."

"Thank you."

"Have a good evening, Mr. Lee."

Lucas slams the door behind him, the takeout in his hands filling the condo with savory steam. "You want gyoza? I got an extra order."

"No, thanks," he answers idly, looking up the trip on his phone. Three hours one way, including a ferry ride. "Lucas? Can you call Yuta? We're gonna need a ride tomorrow."

————

Pine. Exhaust. Salt. 

Exactly as Yangyang had described. Victoria is quieter than he would've expected given the proliferation of buildings, but, he supposes, it's a long way from tourist season. The freezing rain had finally tapered off, leaving only the ominous grey clouds behind. He can appreciate not having to wear his sunglasses everywhere.

"I forget how pretty this place is," Mark says, navigating the coastal road away from downtown that separates the condos from the rocky beaches. "Even when it's kind of gross out. The hiking in summer is insane."

When he'd shown up in his beat up Civic instead of Yuta and his Jeep, Ten had blanched. Or at least gone paler than his usual pale, and dragged Lucas aside. "If you told Jungwoo about my not-thing with Johnny," he hissed, "does everyone know?"

He'd tilted his head, considering. "Yeah, probably."

"Great. Just great." Mark had waved then, and Ten plastered on his sunniest smile. They'd barely said two words to each other.

"I appreciate you taking us," Ten says. "I'm surprised you don't have exams."

"I needed a study break anyway." Mark's gaze flicks to the rearview mirror and then back to the road, embarrassed once he realizes. 

"Still, let me know how much I owe you."

Mark nods. They turn back into a neighbourhood of normal-sized houses, some more well-maintained than others. A mix of locals who have lived on the island for as long as they can remember and the super rich who moved away from the big cities for the small town feel. That's how it always goes in beautiful places.

They pull up to a white house with a nicely manicured front garden. There are box hedges — still green even in the winter — and a stepping stone path to the front door that keeps their shoes from the puddles. Mark elects to stay with the car and Ten doesn't fight him on it; hopefully they can keep the visit short. Besides, three men showing up at a woman's door is more than a little intimidating. He needs Julie Young to be as receptive as possible.

The doorbell rings with the harmonious resonance of large chimes. Lucas giggles. Ten wants to join him, but there's also one of those video preview systems and he needs to look professional. He's even wearing a full suit and carrying his messenger bag. Impressions are everything.

Julie Young is almost as tall as he is, but the kind of slight that means she's nothing but corded muscle underneath her three-hundred dollar moisture wicking workout shirt and leggings. Unlike the middle-aged women in that same get up Ten encounters power walking through London's parks, her high ponytail is messy, and her face red like they did just interrupt an actual workout. 

"Gosh, I didn't realize the time. I'm so sorry, come in." Her gaze flicks to an unsteady Lucas as he bends to take off his boots in her foyer. "I have to admit, I'm a bit surprised you were able to track me down. I don't generally publicize my collection, as much as I enjoy owning it."

"Finding and acquiring unique items is something of a specialty of mine," Ten says, handing over a business card. "I'm a dowser by trade. This is my associate Mr. Wong."

Her eyebrows fly into her fringe. "Interesting. Would you like something to drink?"

Much like the woman herself, the inside of the house is a picture of comfortable minimalism. The best kind of nothingness money can buy. Whites and sea blues in an open floor plan. Her kitchen is almost as small as Ten's, though it features an impressive island and stainless steel stove. He'd bet his entire commission that she hadn't turned it on more than five times. 

"No, thank you. I appreciate you seeing me on such short notice."

"I have to admit, it's more curiosity than willingness to part with any of my antiques," she says, taking a chilled filtration pitcher from her fridge. He gets a glimpse of tupperware after tupperware of prepared meals. 

"I'm hoping I can change your mind." He smiles, lips carefully tucked over teeth.

She smiles back, genuine. "I'm not entirely opposed, either. I just, you know, get attached to my favourites."

"Your favourites?"

"Mmm. Follow me."

They wind through the house, the colour palette staying the same but the textures changing, with a soft runner under their feet as they walk through the narrow hallway and hanging macrame on the walls. The door she leads them through is a single plate of glass, but it's dark inside. Not too dark for Ten, but as Julie flicks a few light switches, both he and Lucas make appreciative noises.

Every wall has been turned into a gallery, with white shelves behind the same plate glass lighting up each piece individually. It's a memorial to torture through the ages. 

Rusty hooks hang gracefully from nails painted white so as not to disturb the starkness of the image. Blocks of spiked wood shine, lacquered first with old, old, blood and then with modern varnish to keep the rot at bay. A wicked iron screw sits in the place of prominence, attached on one end to what looks like a metal cap.

In the middle of the room is a lone yoga mat. A small white cabinet has its doors still open and a monitor displayed. A video of a woman contorting herself into advanced poses plays on mute.

Ten's stomach churns. 

It's not helped by the hum of magic either, plucking at the hair of his arms. While there weren't any wards to keep unwanted trespassers out of her house, this room reverberates with protective magic. Some from the gallery set up to keep her treasures safe, but some from the items themselves. 

His eyes are drawn immediately to the device. The lantern that's not a lantern. Its magical signature pulses in counterpoint to his own heartbeat. Unlike most of Julie Young's collection, its brass petals are bright, shiny. Ten makes his way across the room to peer at it through the glass. Just as they had suspected, each petal is etched with runes. He doesn't know all of them. A few he recognizes as containing and direct magical flow. 

"What is this?" Lucas asks, awed, in the oldest sense of the word. There's a note of fear in the question.

"My mindfulness gallery," Julie answers. "I come here to do yoga. Meditate." 

Lucas' awe turns to disbelief in a blink. "In here?"

Julie giggles. "Everyone asks that."

"You have to admit, this is an unusual space for meditation," Ten says turning back to the conversation. He can't look too eager before the negotiation.

"I actually have a masters in history," Julie says. "Mostly studied post-plague Europe. I was led to meditation by trying to contemplate why our answer to terrible events is always to inflict more pain upon each other. Seeing this keeps me focused. Keeps me wanting to change that mindset."

"I suppose," Ten murmurs. 

"Would you like to see it? The chokepear?"

"Please."

She taps in a code on a white keypad and the glass in front of that shelf swings open, wards deactivated. It's a neat bit of magic. He has no idea how it's done. Hendery probably knows. Or Cat. Ten shakes his head. Focus. First the job, then he can deal with the whole Yangyang situation. 

Julie slips on a pair of white satin gloves she pulls from a drawer under her TV set up and carefully pulls the brass chokepear down from the display. She also grabs the silver item laying next to it. Punching a few more buttons, the glass pane swings shut again. "Let's discuss in the living room. Would you mind grabbing the other pair of gloves?" 

The light in the living room is less harsh but still the chokepear seems to reflect more of it than any of the polished vases on her bookshelves. It's smaller than Ten thought it would be; a good two inches shorter than Hendery's model. He holds it with a single hand, running a finger over the etching. The magic is there but it seems distant somehow. Like it is lying in wait. 

"This is probably the most distinctive piece in my collection."

"I can see why," Ten says. 

"My dealer says it's Chinese, which is rare enough itself. This kind of torture wasn't really their style."

Ten nods. "We believe it is Qing Dynasty."

"That recent? Huh. Tim was never able to get a reliable reading on its age. As you can see, it doesn't rust."

"Very remarkable," Ten agrees. "As I said, I have a client who is interested in purchasing this piece."

"And as I said, I will need some convincing to let it go."

"Would one hundred thousand be enough convincing?"

"No." Julie smiles, but there's nothing conniving about it. She sits back in her loveseat with her bare feet tucked up underneath her. Just a woman who is well aware of her own worth. "Tell me why he wants it."

Ten's eyebrow ticks up but he does his best to keep his face placid. "It's not my policy to ask why."

"That seems like an oversight, Mr. Lee. Especially for a dowser." She gestures to the chokepear in his hands. "I know it's magical. I may not be educated in the arcane, but a rare Chinese torture device that doesn't rust? That's magic."

He sighs. "I will be honest with you, Ms. Young."

"Julie."

"Julie. I haven't asked because I don't know what to do with the answer. My world," he lifts the corner of his lip to show the barest point of his fang, "is not like yours. And there are no easy solutions to complicated problems."

She shifts in her seat, eyes going wide, but doesn't immediately reach for her phone to call the cops.

Ten continues. "Here is what I do know. I know this piece is not a device for torture. Not, at least, in the way you and I know it to be. It is magical. You are right about that. But what it actually does is still a mystery. However, I know there is danger in owning a magical device. Not just from the item itself, but from the people who covet it. So I ask you again, is one hundred thousand enough to convince you?"

Julie sits up straight. "Two hundred."

"One seventy-five."

She looks him right in the eyes. "Two fifty. American."

Ten grins. "Very well. Two fifty."

It takes a few moments for Ten to use his authorization to transfer the funds into Julie's accounts. Unlike certain buyers, she doesn't seem concerned about the money, only checking her balance at his urging. He is a professional, after all. Lucas takes the gloves and wraps up the piece in soft linen. They don't have a box — why bring one when they didn't know if it was three feet tall. 

"Oh, don't forget the key," Julie says, pointing to the silver object on the table. "You won't be able to open it otherwise."

Ten picks it up to study it. It doesn't have the same skin-rippling thrum of enchantment. "This was made separately?"

"I had it tooled to match. The original is lost to the ages, unfortunately." Julie shrugs.

"Then it will have to do." Ten bows out of habit as they leave, antique tucked safely in his messenger bag. "Thank you for doing business. And if you ever need a dowser, please, don't hesitate to call."

"I will," Julie says. "Have a good day!"

The drizzle has started again while they were inside, but Mark's blue Civic is still sitting by the curb so they duck in before they can get too wet. 

"How'd it go?" He asks, blasting the heater the minute he turns the car on.

Ten smiles like the cat who ate the canary. "Well."

"Cool. That's cool." 

"Very."

"Where to next, then?" Mark asks as he pulls into the street.

"Home. I have to make arrangements to get this to its new owners."

Ten glances down at his watch with a grimace. With the eight-hour time difference, it's already December 20th in England. He'll have to get on the next flight out if he wants to make the deadline, maybe catching an overnight to Toronto or New York. Figuring this out would be so much easier with Yangyang. He knows their frequent flyer numbers by heart.

Will he even have time to pack? Or say goodbye? Does he even want to? Ten sighs and leans his head against the window. Maybe they can come back sometime. It's not like anyone here is out for his head. Better than Prague, if perhaps, messier and more painful. A knife to the ribs is pretty straightforward.

His phone rings as they turn on to the main road back to the ferry. His pulse leaps into his throat.

"Hey, Yangyang," he says, swallowing down his nervousness. "I left you some gyoza in the fridge."

"Ten, you need to come home _._ " He sounds… off. Afraid.

Instinctively he reaches out through their connection, the old magic that binds them. He's far, obviously, but his heartbeat is strong. "Yangyang, what's wrong?"

"They're here."

"Who?"

There's a noise in the background, a phone being passed around. And then the posh tones he'd recognize anywhere. 

"Hello, Mr. Lee," Mr. Banks says.


	12. Chapter 12

**__** _He didn't know why he was there. Rome seemed as good as any place to be. It wasn't Taiwan. It wasn't London. It wasn't Berlin. Wasn't anywhere they would run into each other by accident. His Italian was still shit, but it didn't matter, really. If they didn't speak English, his French or Spanish could get him through. Sometimes, body language was enough._

_The club, though, was loud in the way a club should be — bass booming all the way into his bones. He had come for the vague idea of 'doing something fun'. A break in the monotony that was his life. Maybe to feed, if he felt like picking up._

_But as he stared at the writhing mass of people on the dance floor, handsome men with their chest hair on display, women showing every curve of their bodies, none of this seemed fun anymore. It hadn't been fun in months. Was this what depression felt like? Oprah had a special on depression with Dr. Phil and it seemed more dramatic than this. Of course, now Oprah wasn't even on air to guide him. He'd almost cried when her last episode was announced. Almost._

_If Ten was the smoking sort, he'd go outside for a cigarette. Calm his nerves or something._

_But he didn't smoke, couldn't even breathe, and now this was the last place he ever wanted to be. So he left._

_It was early hours, the dark-dark before the sun rises. He liked that about Rome; they knew how to party. Not like Berlin with the drugs and EDM scene, but good old fashioned debauchery. Too much appalling liquor, shouted conversations, arguments about nothing that turned into a celebration of everything._

_The flat he'd rented was small, but it didn't need to be any bigger. It was just him, after all. He stepped into the small tile shower and let the water sluice over his body, washing away the grit of the city and the cloying stench of revelry. The housekeeper had been that day, so he slipped into clean sheets and tried to fall asleep._

_His phone roused him from the kind of discontented dull dream he always seemed to be having. It was still early morning, but like it did every time his phone rang now, his heart leapt. Maybe this time it would be Yangyang. Maybe he would come home again._

_The unrecognized number, however, proved to be a British man, with posh, rounded vowels, and clipped, efficient sentences. "Is this Mr. Ten Lee?"_

_"This is he," Ten answered, groggy. His clock said it was just after nine._

_"You are a hard man to get a hold of Mr. Lee. Am I correct that you specialise in finding the unfindable?"_

_"I do." Ten cleared his throat. "And you are?"_

_"My apologies. I am Alfonso Banks. My employer, Lady Burnett-Cecil is looking to add a specific set of journals to her library."_

_"My fees are steep."_

_He could hear the disdainful smile. "That won't be a problem, Mr. Lee. When can you start?"_

————

It takes every ounce of Ten's restraint not to abandon Lucas in the elevator and shadowdance directly into the flat. That's probably why the wolf clamps a massive hand on his shoulder as Ten tries not to vibrate out of his skin. 

"Everything's going to be fine," Lucas murmurs.

Even he doesn't sound convinced. 

The way his skin jumps as they stride down the hall to their condo has nothing to do with magic and everything to do with dread. It's bad enough that he doesn't realize the wards are gone until Lucas is unlocking the door.

"Fuck," he swears, and then louder once they step into the foyer, and the cool, oppressive power of elder vampire staggers him. 

"No need to be crass, Mr. Lee," Lady Burnett-Cecil says from one of the armchairs. Magic rolls off her in waves, as strong as any Master, but the frequency is slower. Plodding. It shambles over his skin like a true caricature of the undead. 

Yangyang sits primly on the couch, flanked by two more vampires that Ten's never seen before. If it weren't for the way his eyes dart around the room, wide with barely contained fear, Ten would think it was a typical Thursday night. He's wearing someone's black hoodie — Dejun's probably, since it actually fits — and the same joggers he'd stolen from Ten days before. His new garnet ring has been threaded onto a cheap necklace. Yangyang can't stop fiddling with it. He looks impossibly young.

Standing by the door to greet them is the repellent and grey-washed Mr. Banks. Another two vampires patrol the living room. Even with Lucas at his side, there's no winning a fight here. An all-too-familiar throbbing starts at the back of his skull.

"What are you doing here?" Ten asks. He has a million questions but there's only one that matters.

"I was concerned with your alacrity, or lack thereof, in obtaining my lantern," Lady Burnett-Cecil answers. "Mr. Banks suggested a visit might spur things along. But judging from my bank account, you may have come in right under the wire."

"It's not a lantern," Ten says.

Her drawn face doesn't wrinkle as the side of her mouth lifts into the barest approximation of a smile. "No. It is not. My device, please."

Slowly, carefully, under the alert eyes of her guards, Ten draws the linen wrapped object from his messenger bag. Banks takes it gingerly. If her stony face had the ability to show anything other than antipathy, Ten would guess that Lady Burnett-Cecil is giddy as a schoolgirl as she delicately unwrapped the brass device.

"How did you get in here," Ten asks as they're distracted.

She answers, distracted, "Mr. Banks is an accomplished magician in his own right. He's been keeping an eye on your progress."

"You were scrying on me?"

"It was too important. We couldn't let you two out of our sight," Banks says. 

Ten's head pounds, the headache really setting in. He'd go for his oil but he doesn't trust the other vampires not to see it as an aggression. Scrying, though. Part of him is highly offended; how dare they not trust his professionalism. The other, however, is just glad to have an answer. The blackness. The waves of magic that no one else could feel. A spell, targeted just for him.

"But, you need something of mine. To scry."

Banks smirks. "You changed your mobile number, Mr. Lee."

It falls into place at once. The casual way he'd handed over a business card, the ones that sat next to his heart in his inner jacket pockets. Just his name and his telephone number. The deliberate way Banks had tucked it away safely.

"Isn't it beautiful, Alfonso?" Lady Burnett-Cecil holds the device up to inspect it in the light. 

"Yes, ma'am," Banks replies. 

Every eye in the room watches as she turns it over and over, pleased. 

Ten clears his throat. "What is it?"

"A better path," she murmurs. 

Alarms ring in his head, but he doesn't have time to ask his next question, as the silver key falls from the discarded wrapping onto the ground with a clunk. Graceful fingers pick it up. Frown lines appear, shocking in the stiffness of her face, as she peers at it. "Mr. Lee, what is this?"

"The key. To open it."

"There must be some mistake," Banks says. Even Yangyang looks confused; he's studied the picture just as often as Ten.

"The previous owner had this one made to fit. It works, you can try it."

The Lady's icy gaze lands on him, chilling him to his core. "It most certainly does not. Where is the original?"

"The original was lost," Ten pauses to keep his voice light, "In the fire at Mo Hengzhi's lab. That was several hundred years ago."

"What are a hundred years to a dowser?" she snaps. "What are five hundred? Where is the key?"

"Why don't you ask Mo Hengzhi yourself?" Ten snipes back. 

For a moment, he thinks he's gone too far. Her eyes blaze with rage. One of her guards starts forward, but her Ladyship just laughs. It's as cruel and sharp as the points of her fangs. 

"Ask him? I haven't spoken to the professor since the seventies, when I was forced to put my hand through his chest. His heart burst between my fingers like a tick that drank too deeply."

Ten's mind reels. He does his best to keep it from his face. Finally, he's free from the spectre of his sire. For real, this time. Even for an elder as powerful as Mo Hengzhi, there's no coming back from a destroyed heart. Blood can't heal if it can't flow. That relief quickly dissipates as the fury on Lady Burnett-Cecil's face remains. 

There are rules, usually, for disputes between elders. Traditions. Already, though, she has shown herself to care nothing for those mores. Scrying on him. Having her pet witch dismantle Kun's intricate warding. When one monster kills another, a monster still remains. One who is used to getting exactly what she wants.

"I don't know," Ten whispers. His voice cracks. "Where it is."

"Then it appears we were correct in assuming you may need some additional incentive." 

Lady Burnett-Cecil stands, gesturing to her retinue. The two vampires flanking Yangyang force him to his feet. He yelps as their grip tightens against his protests. Lucas growls softly behind him, the warmth of his shifter magic building rapidly. Ten quiets him with a warning hand on his furry wrist. There's no winning this fight. Not now.

Banks snatches the ring from around Yangyang's neck. "You won't need protection," Banks sniffs. He deposits it into his Master's outstretched hand.

"Alfonso," Ten says.

"Yes?" Banks answers with a cock of one wormy eyebrow.

"What's an Oxford man like you doing with a name like that?"

"My mother was Italian," Banks replies. "You have until midnight tomorrow to bring us the key, Mr. Lee."

With one final shove from his kidnappers, Yangyang is pushed from the flat. The Lady and her retinue follow, and her dank magic crawling behind her.

The click of the door drains the last of his energy. Ten slumps, then, when his knees shake too badly to keep him upright, gives in and sits down, cross-legged on the floor right there in the foyer.

"Fuck," Lucas says. "I gotta call Kun."

"No." Ten dabs his headache oil on his temples. He needs his brain to work right now. "He would have to bring it to Master Kwon. Or, wouldn't have to, but he would. He's a good boy."

"That's what we should _do_."

Ten tips his head back to look at Lucas' panicked expression. "You're both so innocent. One, Master Kwon won't get involved. She doesn't need any sort of international incident. Especially since Lady Burnett-Cecil has been living as a human for at least two decades."

"But…"

"Two. Neither of us want Kun rushing in half cocked with his messiah complex." Take that therapists. "Because you know he would."

Lucas looks conflicted. "I don't like this. He might know what to do."

"Oh, is Kun a dowser now?"

"We can't just let them have Yangyang."

"I know. I know! Help me up." Lucas hauls him to his feet like he weighs nothing. "We need to go shopping."

"Now?"

Determination blooms in his chest. "I need supplies."

"We _need_ help."

"Just… give me some time to fix this. He's my progeny. This is my job." At Lucas' fixed stare Ten shakes his head. "Give me a day. If we still don't know anything by tomorrow night, I will go to Kun myself." 

Lucas doesn't look convinced, but at least he uncrosses his arms. "I hope you know what you're doing."

"They say I'm the best for a reason," Ten tries to joke but it doesn't land. 

He hopes he does, too.

————

In the end all it takes is a fifteen minute trip to the Shoppers down the block and Ten is back in the condo, pink sidewalk chalk in hand. The little two-seater dining table serves as his ritual surface and he sketches out the runes with a precision born of years and years of practice. It's the muscle memory that's saving him now — his mind is still running a mile a minute. 

This would be easier if he had done the first ritual, but no, he'd let Yangyang do that. He'd wanted to show that he trusted him. That they were working towards a partnership. And then he let his own mess of issues push him away the minute Yangyang actually tried to be independent. Better to hurt than be hurt. 

Lucas hovers over his shoulder, half concerned, half fascinated. 

"You're hovering," Ten says. "You won't want to be in this circle." 

"Oh, sorry." 

He backs up enough for Ten to pour the iodized salt in a rough circle. It's more of an oval, but the magic doesn't care about that. Already he can feel it rising, eager, ruffling the hair on his head. They were out of plain black sleep masks, so the one he slips on has big Betty Boop eyes, but it works well enough. The paring knife comes from the kitchen, as does the saucer by his hand. 

A quick slice and the magic howls, silent and hungry, as his blood drips into the cream-coloured saucer. The knife clinks against the ceramic as he fumbles the spacing. There's no way to tell if he's smudged a rune, but the magic is so loud against his skin he's sure even Lucas can feel it outside the circle. 

With swift, sure strokes Ten's bloody fingers write the seeking rune in the air. The magic seizes onto the command like a hound. It bays as it sprints away after its quarry. 

It pulls him along, in a dizzying whoosh — his least favorite part — but the spinning tunnel of nothingness and shrieking only lasts for the briefest moment. His head throbs with the force of it, but it's good news. The key isn't on the other side of the world.

His consciousness lands somewhere dark. Not the absence-of-light kind of darkness, but where it has been filtered out. He's lying against something warm and silky, but not exactly soft. It smells like laundry detergent and the hint of blood just below the surface. The pressure in his skull builds. He won't be able to stay in the ritual much longer. He hasn't eaten enough. 

Ten concentrates, trying to pull his vision back from the key. It feels like stretching himself thin, like his skin might rip if he goes too far. There are dim lights and the clatter of many voices trying to speak at the same time. It's English at least. He can tell that, even if he can't catch what they're saying. He braces himself and pulls away again. 

There's a sliver of moonlight peeking through a crack in the clouds. It shines down on the blaze of city lights. Then a whip of sea wind, cold enough to make him gasp. Lucas moves behind him. Ten sketches the ending rune before he can do something stupid like break the circle. The magic dissipates with a final scream that he feels down to his very bones.

"Ten?" Lucas says. It swims up to him through the ringing in his ears. "Are you okay? That was intense."

"Yeah. Yeah." He strips off the sleep mask. "It's close. I don't know exactly where, but this coast, I think. If not here, somewhere nearby. Seattle. Portland. Maybe down to San Francisco, but it felt too cold for that."

Lucas processes that with a grimace. "So, what now? We don't have time to just drive around the entire west coast." 

There's no good answer to that question. At least not one that Lucas is going to accept. Ten reaches for the oil in his pocket. Maybe he should just pay Cordelia Catchpole a monthly salary for a continual supply of headache relief. There's too much magic in the world for him to navigate without this ever again.

Once he has synth heating, he finally turns back to his bodyguard. Not that he really needs one anymore. Lady Burnett-Cecil knows he'll come running when she crooks her finger. Lucas is tall enough that he looms even when he doesn't mean to, shoulders nearly to his ears with stress. He's a good kid. For all that he may have done plenty of security stints for Master Kwon, Ten doubts he's ever been emotionally invested in their outcome. She's not the kind of person to inspire attachment. 

"Now we go old school. It's owned. I think it's being worn as jewelry. I'll give you the list we've been working from — see if they've sold anything to artists."

"That feels like a longshot."

It is. 

"This job isn't all glamour," Ten retorts. "I'll call jewelers, boutiques, any artists doing found object work. This stuff works."

"You mean maybe we'll get lucky."

"Yeah. Maybe we will." 

Lucas sighs. "Ten…"

"No. No. No. You promised. I have until tomorrow night."

"Is anyone even going to answer? It's," he glances at the clock on the microwave, "after eight already."

"Does it matter?" Lucas' eyes are huge with worry. Ten shakes off his own doubts. He can't afford to get caught up in his own anxiety. "We will leave as many voicemails as it takes." 

So they do. Ten makes himself cup after cup of synth, sending Lucas to bed around one A.M. and finishing his list. He stays up until dawn, calling every jeweler he can find in the pacific northwest. 

It's not just guilt that drives him, though there's plenty of that to keep him blearily googling for new names. He never wanted to be a sire. Told himself that he wouldn't do this to another being. There's nothing beautiful or romantic about being forced to live through the years, constantly aware that at any moment your own people could come for your heart. Or worse, that your own body could betray you. That you could slip past the bounds of the magic that kept you a person, that the bloodlust could take over.

Despite that, Yangyang had happened. Had doggedly tracked him through the streets of East Berlin, drums loud in his ears. When it came down to it, the decision had fallen easily from his lips, easier than pressing his bleeding wrist to Yangyang's mouth to make the dying boy drink.

And with the exception of their disastrous 2010, they have spent forty years learning each other's peculiarities. Their likes and dislikes. There's no one in the world who knows him better than Yangyang now. 

His throat closes up and he has to swallow around the hot press of emotion. He's been such a shit sire.

Around seven, Lucas finds him on the couch with his laptop propped on his knee and three different mugs on the coffee table. He'd keep calling if it wasn't for the big hand gently prying the phone from his grip.

"Hey. Go get some sleep," Lucas says. 

"I have a few more leads." Ten makes grabby hands for his mobile.

"I'll call. It's not going to do Yangyang any good if you're running on fumes." He takes the laptop too and gently shoves Ten back towards the bedrooms.

Sleep, unsurprisingly, doesn't come easily. There are too many scenarios running through his over-tired brain. Eventually, though, he can't stay awake any longer, and the next thing he sees are the final rays of the sunset streaming through the slats of his blinds. Lucas let him sleep too long. There's a vain hope that maybe he was just being kind, that he was waiting to surprise him with good news, but one look at his drawn face and Ten's hope vanishes.

"Nothing?"

"A couple shops returned our calls, but no one's seen anything like the key. I wrote them down." 

Lucas holds out a list scribbled on Yangyang's notebook. Just the sight of it makes Ten's heart falter. Reflexively, he reaches through the connection just to make sure he's still there. Still alive. The pulse he feels is steady. Ten runs a hand through his hair. It's long enough now to fall over his eyes. He'd wanted to look boyish for some reason. All he feels is old.

With or without help, they only have hours to get Yangyang back.

The fridge is empty so Ten returns to his search with only the strength of will to keep the panic at bay. Lucas orders delivery. Twice. Finally, when his curry shows up at just past nine he looks at Ten with those baleful eyes. 

"Fine. Just let me make one more call," Ten says, already scrolling through his contacts for a number he should know by heart.

Johnny, blessed, reliable Johnny, picks up on the second ring. 

"It's an emergency," Ten says before he can get a word in.

"You never call me just to chat anymore," Johnny says, but he must pick up on something in Ten's voice because he sobers immediately. "What do you need?"

"Someone. Anyone. I'm looking for a key that's been made into a necklace or some kind of pendant. Here in the Pacific Northwest. It's old, but not too old. Late 18th century early 19th. I don't know the scale but probably around five centimetres by five. Maybe a little more?"

"Ten, babe, what's the matter?"

"I can't talk about it," Ten says. It's not exactly a lie. If he tells Johnny what's happened, he'll do something terrible, like be sweet to him, the kind of lovely that will make him stop moving so he can try to cry. Ten can't afford a breakdown. Not right now. "Things have escalated. Jewelry, Johnny."

"Um, yeah. Okay. Uh, I haven't talked to him in years, but Newman Baker? Based out of NorCal. Mostly does antiques — furniture, paintings, etc. Nothing too exciting. But he's got a good handle on the estate sale scene out there and there's a lot of jewelry that passes through wine country." Johnny pauses. "Does this have to do with your ex?"

"What? No!" Ten frowns at his phone. "We're fine. Why would you bring him up?"

"Hey, hey, hey, I just thought maybe since you were asking about it…" Johnny trails off. 

Ten grits his teeth. "No, Kun's fine. He's going to help…" The realization hits him like a brick. "Kun… is going to help."

The way he'd taken one look at the schematic and known where it was from. How he'd clutched at his chest and said "I won't help you."

"I gotta go."

"I'll text you that number."

"Don't bother," Ten says. "Hey, Johnny?"

"Yeah, babe?"

"Thanks for everything."

"Ten," Johnny starts. The rest is cut off as Ten punches the end call button.

Lucas looks at him with raised eyebrows, spooning rice directly into his container of panang curry. 

"Finish your dinner," Ten tells him. "I'm going to take a shower. And then we need to go see Kun."

————

There's a new wolf at the door, long legs tucked up on his stool. He opens his mouth to say something to Ten, but Lucas just shakes his head. His mouth snaps shut.

It's a Friday night, so Nectar is bustling. The band is in full swing already, and a few daring couples dance in the space between the tables and the stage. There's a female singer this time, in sparkly flapper gear, her voice smokey and resonant. It ripples through the haze of Ten's thoughts, urging him to sit. To enjoy.

Some siren blood in her, probably. 

"Stay here," he tells Lucas.

"We're not supposed to split up," he protests.

Ten snorts. "You really think I'm in danger here? In Kun's house? It'll be fine."

Technically, he is. But not from Lady Burnett-Cecil. His heart feels like it's going to burst right through his chest. Ignoring Lucas' pout, he heads straight for the bar. Sicheng has a crowd of admirers that he blithely ignores when Ten pushes through them. 

"Where's Kun?" Ten asks without preamble.

He raises a single eyebrow. "Why should I tell you?"

"It's an emergency."

If anything, Sicheng looks more skeptical at that. His eyes flick over Ten's carefully chosen outfit — the blouse that hangs open just a little more than it should, the tight black jeans, his studded leather jacket. 

Ten sighs. "Listen, I need to talk to the boss-boss."

He makes him wait for one more excruciating moment as he carefully pulls off one of his white leather gloves. In a flash, that hand darts out, pulling him close over the bartop. Pleasure flows from the grip on his wrist. It teeters on the edge of overwhelming. 

Sicheng's voice is pleasant in his ear, deep but peaceful. "If you hurt him, I will blow through your brain's entire supply of dopamine in a single explosion of pleasure that you will never ever have the chance to feel again, leaving you a broken, babbling, shell of a man for the rest of your long, long life."

And then the hand is gone. Ten shudders from the sudden loss. He nods, slowly. "Okay."

Sicheng's fingers wiggle back into that glove. He regards Ten again like he's a bug. No wonder everyone is in love with him. "Kun's in the lab. Go through the back."

It's not far, but every step gives him pause. A chance to run. Maybe there's another way. Maybe he could bargain something else for Yangyang. In the end, he reaches the glass door to the lab and the conclusion that it won't matter. Without the key, both their lives are forfeit. With the key, Yangyang has a chance.

He knocks softly. At first, there's no answer. Kun must know it's him. His own heart beats in duplicate when they're this close.

Finally, though, there's a quiet "Come in."

The lab is bright in its white, sterile way. The harsh fluorescent lighting does no favors for his skin, but he supposes it's better for the precise work Kun does here. Tonight that seems to consist of scribbling on a notebook while his laptop plays classic Chinese love songs. He can do this. It might have been almost two hundred years, but there's no one in this world better at pushing Kun's buttons.

"Hey."

"Hi, Ten," he says. He sounds tired. He doesn't even look up.

"So," Ten saunters over to the bench where he's sitting, leaning so that his shirt gapes prettily, "it's my last night here."

"I wish you an uneventful flight."

"Is that any way to say goodbye to an old friend, Kun-ge?"

 _That_ makes Kun's head snap up. His blond hair is styled up off his forehead, but otherwise he's in bar-owner casual, light jeans and a wrinkle-free lilac button down, the cuffs rolled up to show off his forearms. Show off is the wrong word. Kun's presence is never an affectation. He just is… affecting. Ten's blood burns.

Kun clears his throat. "I hope you enjoyed your time here. You should visit again, soon."

"Yeah?" Ten looks up at him through his lashes.

There's a huff of a laugh and then Kun's shaking his head. Not at all the reaction he was going for. "What do you want, Ten?"

"Fine," Ten bristles. It's not entirely an act. "If you're going to be like that, I can go. I just thought it might be fun to be together. Like the old times."

Kun's eyes go dark, skating down Ten's lithe body. He preens a little. Even the smallest bit of his attention speeds the thump of Ten's desperate heart. 

"Mary says this is a bad idea."

"What your therapist doesn't know won't hurt."

Kun chuckles again, but this time it is genuine amusement. His dimple peeks out from hiding. "That is literally the opposite of how therapy works."

"Whatever." Ten rolls his eyes. "If you won't fuck me, you have an entire bar downstairs of people who will."

He turns to go, but gets maybe five steps towards the door before there's a hand on his wrist yanking him back. It's a dance, the way Kun spins him around, steering them backwards. He leads and Ten follows; Ten doesn't want to do anything but follow, even when the handle of the door ends up in his back. The sound that escapes him is half yelp, half moan. Kun's grip on his wrist tightens.

"Don't pull in my bar," Kun growls.

There's never any breath in his lungs, but under the weight of Kun's intense gaze, Ten has a hard time even gathering the air he needs to speak. Still, he grins impishly, tossing his hair out of his face. "Like you could stop me."

Kun's jaw clenches. For a moment, he thinks he's pushed too hard, that the furrow of Kun's brow means something new. And then Kun kisses him.

He thought he was prepared for this. Had been angling for it. But it's not just a kiss; it's an attack. Kun cages him against the door, not much bigger, but more sure of himself than he's ever been. Ten's head hits the glass as he lets him in, unable to do anything but cling to his muscular shoulders and let his mouth be ravaged.

Blood trickles across his tongue. It tastes like Kun. But then he tastes like Kun. Still. He drags his fangs across Kun's bottom lip, licking up the droplets that well up in their wake. Kun groans. A hand winds its way under the hem of Ten's silky shirt, his elegant fingers curling around the jut of his hip bone like they own it.

There's barely space for air between them. Ten might combust from the way his bloodstream boils when Kun rips his mouth away just to scrape his teeth over his jugular. He whines involuntarily. There's a smile against the artery in his neck.

His jeans are uncomfortably tight as he gets hard, but he can feel the weight of Kun's cock against his thigh, too, and all he wants is to get naked as quickly as possible. He scrabbles at the button down, yanking it from where it's tucked in. He barely gets his fingers on the first button before Kun is grabbing his hands and slamming them up against the door. His hips twitch up at that. 

Kun smirks. "Still so impatient. Don't you know we live forever?"

"And yet somehow I will die before you finally fuck me." Ten wiggles, but Kun just squeezes tighter. 

"Not allowed to have sex in the lab," Kun breathes against his mouth.

He crushes their lips together again, somehow even fiercer. Ten can't help the little 'ah's of pleasure that hiccup from him as he writhes against the hard line of Kun's body. "Come on," he pants. "Come on, come on, come on."

The only warning he gets is a mischievous smile before Kun turns the handle and Ten is stumbling backwards into the hallway. If it weren't for his grip on Kun's shirt he probably would've landed on his ass. He snaps his teeth at Kun's quiet laughter.

"You're an arsehole. I bet no one else knows that."

Kun reels him back in, nosing at his jaw. "And they'd never believe you if you told them."

His train of thought shivers right out of his head. "Kun," he whines. 

"Upstairs. Third floor."

The climb up the fanciful staircase takes forever, mostly because Kun keeps nipping at Ten's ears from behind and then Ten has to push him against the wall and bite back. Eventually, though, Kun punches in the code to his personal rooms and Ten feels like he's climbed through a wardrobe into his own personal Narnia.

It's messier than he thought it'd be. Or maybe that's just his selective memory. He'd been the one to tidy up after the Master and Kun. Books are shelved haphazardly in the large bookcase. There are hoodies strewn on both ends of the overstuffed couch. A massive computer monitor sits on an antique wooden desk, its screensaver oscillating hypnotically. It is surrounded by empty mis-matched mugs. The space is warm, and cozy, and if not for the hands dipping under the waistband of his jeans, Ten would spend an hour prowling around and cataloguing everything.

"Bedroom?" he asks instead.

Kun just steers him through another door by the hips. "Strip," he whispers, shoving Ten unceremoniously onto the bed.

"Make me."

The look Kun levels at him makes Ten's mouth go dry. His biceps strain against the cotton of his button down as he crosses his arms. "Fine," Ten pouts as he tosses his jacket to the floor, "you're no fun."

Kun catches the boot Ten flings at him, his gaze dropping pointedly to where Ten's half-hard dick presses against his jeans. "I think you're having a lot of fun."

"You're lucky you're handsome."

He unbuttons the bottom of his shirt, watching the way Ten's eyes fall to the sliver of stomach it reveals. "And smart."

Ten's shirt is the next to go. "And arrogant." 

Kun's eyes sweep across his chest. This must be how a rabbit feels when the fox corners it. Ten's fingers still on the fly of his jeans, paralyzed by that pressing hunger. His blood surges. He goes lightheaded with want. 

"Self-confident," Kun says, shrugging out of his own shirt. The silver chain around his neck glints in moonlight.

Ten's heart stops. 

It's not like he had forgotten why he was here. It had just been nice to let himself get caught up in it. To take like he deserved Kun's time. But hanging low on his chest, nestled between his ribs is the key. Much like the lantern-that's-not-a-lantern, it doesn't look much like a key, though there's clearly a cylinder meant to be inserted into the device. Mostly, though, it's a round disc, intricately etched with runework.

"Ten? You okay?" Kun asks, hand running across his chest to his own heart.

He flicks his eyes back up to Kun's face, biting his lip hard enough to draw a bead of blood. It works. Kun growls — actually growls low in his chest like an animal — and launches himself at Ten's mouth. His talented hands make quick work of the buttons on Ten's jeans. It's almost impossible to shimmy out of them and his underwear with Kun attached to his mouth, but kissing has always come naturally to them. Ten whimpers as Kun sucks on the miniscule cut on his lip. Both of them taste like hot copper, richer and more satisfying than any synth could ever be. 

It's maddening, how perfectly they still fit together. His legs fall open instinctually, and Kun slots right between them, the cotton of his jeans harsh against the delicate skin of Ten's inner thighs. Kun's hands leave hot trails along Ten's chest, like his blood is following a new path he's mapping. His cock throbs as those talented fingers drift by it. 

"Please," he pants into the corner of Kun's mouth.

"Please what?"

"Don't be mean."

"You like it when I'm mean," Kun replies, fangs scraping down the soft skin of his neck.

His voice makes him shiver like magic. It makes Ten want to move, to wriggle and jump and flee, but he's pinned safely beneath Kun's density, where all that does is push him closer to the edge. Finally, _finally_ , Kun's fingers stroke over his balls and the pad of a thumb swipes over his hole like an electric shock. 

Ten moans, thrashing under him like a wild animal. He wants more. Wants as much as he can have.

Kun grins wickedly. "Yeah?" He presses in, just the tiniest bit, but enough to have Ten's hips bucking. "Use your words, Chittaphon."

"Yeah, yeah, yes," he gasps. He's not sure what language he's even speaking. Maybe English. Maybe Mandarin. 

Either way, it pulls Kun's mouth back to his for a soft kiss. "So good, baby."

It doesn't quite feel like a punishment when Kun rolls off him to shuck his jeans; the sight of him nude and hard and wanting placates the restless beast of his heart. There's the clink of metal against wood as he sets the pendant — the key, his brain reminds him — on the nightstand. There's the sound of rummaging, too, before Kun settles back where he belongs.

He kisses the inside of one knobby knee, then bites lightly at where his jeans have chafed Ten's thighs. Ten hisses.

"Aren't you glad we lived long enough to have lube?" he asks.

Before Ten can even roll his eyes, one slick finger pushes inside him and drives all thoughts from his head. He's been with other people. Obviously. He's had centuries of sex. Enthusiastic lovers. Skilled ones. Rough ones and sweet ones. But not one has ever been so single-mindedly dedicated to making him lose his mind. 

Kun opens him up with a devotion that borders on fanatical — too much and not enough all at once. He is a god in this bed, subjected to the whims of his priest. However much his body begs, Kun's pace has been preordained, his eyes dark and swirling, too heavy for Ten to bear. 

There's nothing he can do but sigh when Kun pulls his fingers away. He's rearranged, leg tossed over a broad shoulder with a glancing kiss to his ankle. Maybe he is the offering instead. Positioned artfully at the altar of Kun's cock, bent almost in two to better receive the long, thick press of it, his hitching moans being punched out of him like confessions.

"Fuck," Kun groans as their hips come flush together. "Look at how you take…"

But he doesn't finish the sentence, his head tipping back at the sensation as he starts to fuck Ten in earnest. It's hard and fast and inexorable. The grip on his hips holds him in place even if he wanted to leave. He doesn't want to, though. He wants this, the heat of their bodies, the quiet static of his brain, the white hot spark of pleasure as Kun moves inside him. It sneaks up on him like an assassin, bliss slicing through his ribs like a blade.

"Don't stop," he babbles as Kun slows, "I'm close." 

"I won't," Kun says, stilling just long enough to maneuver his leg back to the mattress. "I won't."

The roll of his hips is shallower like this, but Ten's cock is trapped between their bellies, leaking and slipping with every thrust. Kun ducks his head to kiss him again, and it's nothing like a kiss, just the brushing of lips tacky with blood.

"Chittaphon," he breathes into Ten's mouth, "I need…"

"Please," Ten begs. 

Kun's fangs sink into the flesh of his shoulder, knife sharp. Ten's orgasm shakes through him in a blinding rush of exquisite pain and tortuous pleasure. For a moment, nothing exists beyond the lap of Kun's tongue against his skin and the roar of blood in his ears. He feels it when Kun's hips stutter, the cry of him coming muffled by Ten's muscle.

The bleeding slows as they come back to themselves, but the perfect mouth-shaped puncture will take awhile to clot, even without Kun licking it open. They both grimace as Kun pulls out, quickly tying off the condom. Ten almost wishes they hadn't used one. It's not like diseases are an issue for them. But there is less to clean up, only his own mess and slowly drying lube.

"I feel like I should apologize," Kun says from where he's flopped onto the bed next to him.

Ten doesn't want to move. If he moves, the real world will descend upon him. Instead he cracks an eye to give Kun a filthy look. "For knowing exactly what I like? You're becoming too Canadian."

"You should reserve that judgement until I show you my collection of flannel shirts."

"I will judge you now _and_ then."

The smile Kun gives him is gorgeous, unrestrained and dimpled. Ten's heart aches to kiss it, pounding against his chest like it can make him move on its own. If he survives tonight, Sicheng really will kill him.

"Ugh," Kun says, finally looking down at their come-covered stomachs, "we should clean up."

"I'm not moving," Ten replies. "Bring me a washcloth or something."

Kun pinches his side but hauls himself to his feet with a fond grin. He slips through another door, closing it behind him. 

Ten springs to his feet, wiping himself down with a tissue as quickly as he can and wiggling back into his jeans. His shirt is nowhere to be seen, so he throws on his jacket without it and gathers his boots. The running water shuts off and he darts to the dresser, snatching the key from where it lays. It pulses in his hand with the same faint, inactive enchantment of its other half. Just enough to make his skin crawl.

"Ten," Kun says from the doorway. There's barely enough light to see his face but Ten already knows what Kun's disappointment looks like. "He'll kill you."

Ten sets his jaw and forces himself to meet his gaze. His voice is steadier than he feels. "Better me than Yangyang."

And he fades into the shadow.


	13. Chapter 13

_"I am glad you are feeling better, Li Yongqin," Master Mo said, his inflection a dull monotone. "Please, sit."_

_Chittaphon walked into the study with wide eyes. There were books everywhere, more than he'd ever seen in his life. The low desk was cluttered with ink and scraps of metal, papers and trinkets he didn't recognize. The hum of magic — because that's what it was, vampiric magic — that rolled off his sire was as cold as his black-eyed gaze. His skin pebbled with it as he sat._

_"I suppose Qian Kun has informed you already, but I do want to make sure the rules are understood."_

_Unsure what the correct response was, he simply nodded. Master Mo's mouth twitched into a frown. He'd guessed wrong, then._

_"First, and most importantly. I am your sire and your Master. This means you shall follow and obey my orders, or suffer the consequences."_

_"Yes, Master."_

_The furrow between his brows smoothed. Right answer._

_"You shall never enter my study without permission. You shall not go into the village without permission, and you must have an escort until you learn to control your urges. You shall not hunt on your own. I will be going out later tonight and you may join. Or else," his voice turned to a sneer, "you can demean yourself with Kun and the goats. Do you understand?"_

_"Yes, Master," Chittaphon said, even though his comprehension was vague at best. Kun would explain if he asked._

_"I chose you because you are special, Li Yongqin. Do not disappoint me."_

————

Somehow, Ten had managed to flag down one of the five actual cabs in Vancouver, which was a silent blessing. Samir had raised his eyebrows at his fare's shirtlessness, that he was still putting his boots on when he slid into the back seat and read off an address, but had made no other comment than "can you repeat that." The only voice is the gentle lilt of the GPS instructing him when to turn. 

The key is a black hole in his pocket, a weight so dense it could blot out the sun. His blood cools with every block Samir puts between Ten and Nectar. It leaves him sluggish. Light-headed. It had been a bad idea to sleep with Kun for many reasons. He hadn't counted on blood loss being one of them. But that has always been Ten's weakness; he takes, regardless of the consequences.

It's not that he doesn't know it's selfish. Or that the guilt isn't gnawing away at the soft flesh of his organs. It's that given the choice, he'd do it again. A going away present for himself. He deserves it, given what he's walking into. What he's willing to do for Yangyang's safety. 

Kun will understand. He's always understood Ten's heart better than he understood it himself.

Samir drives them out of downtown, the buildings shrinking in height but growing in width. Every once in a while, his eyes flick to the rearview mirror and startle subtly. He says nothing. It takes almost thirty minutes to find their destination, including five minutes circling the same three blocks because all the warehouses look the same past midnight. Samir swipes his card as silently as he'd picked him up and drives off like a shot.

If he were a normal person, blissfully human like Samir, he would also be unsettled by the eerie emptiness of the street. Not even a single light shines outside the warehouse — it's a black monolith in a sea of grey boxes. He's not human, though, never was, really. Ten reaches out with his sensitivity, casting it as far as he can. The sensations he gets back crawl up his skin like tiny ghouls, cold as the grave. His kin. A whole swarm of them. And their Master, too. 

Lady Burnett-Cecil feels like a special sort of frozen hell. Her magic sinks under his flesh to chill him down to his very bones. But there are no wards. And, he can tell even before his sensitivity finds him, Yangyang is inside. 

He rubs some oil on his temples, squares his shoulders, and strides into the building. 

The vampire waiting for him at the entrance is tall and bulkier than most, though even in the dim light of the warehouse, Ten can see how sallow and bloodless his face is. He also stinks of Dior. Ten sneezes in his face.

"Sorry," he says. "Allergies."

"This way," the vampire growls, wiping at his face with his sleeve. "The Master's been waiting."

"Oh, has she," Ten murmurs.

He cranes his neck, trying to take in as much as he can. The vampire leads him up a staircase to a grated metal platform that appears to run around the length of the warehouse. From up high he can see a few people moving about the floor as Banks barks orders at them. One vampire kneels a few feet away, affixing a stubby pole into the concrete. Banks is wearing some kind of white robes, the gold embroidery catching the lights of the flickering candles he has his minions setting up. He looks fucking ridiculous.

"Getting ready for a party?" Ten asks.

His escort doesn't answer. Instead he stands aside as he pushes open a door to what was surely an office. A large window looks down over the warehouse floor. There's no furniture except an elaborate red armchair and the Lady herself, sitting stiff and unimpressed as Ten enters. She crosses her legs, dove grey trousers perfectly hemmed to show off her white Valentino pumps. 

"You're late." She raises one blond eyebrow. Her bodyguards watch him with interest.

"Traffic was a bitch."

"Are you really in a position to be snide, Mr. Lee? We said midnight. And I am on a tight schedule."

Ten stares back, just as icy. "Where's Yangyang?"

"Where is my key?"

"What if I don't have it?"

"That would be," she tilts her head, impossibly pale in the fluorescent lighting, "unfortunate."

"Let Yangyang go. Keep me instead. He'll find it for you."

She sighs. With a flick of a finger, the Dior vampire grabs him by the wrists, twisting his arms behind him. He grits his teeth against the pain.

"It's tiresome, Mr. Lee, to continually have to prove your cleverness. Your sire was like this, too. When I approached him to collaborate he laughed like I was some princess just down from her tower. Search him."

Another vampire, a brunette with a long braid trailing down her back, pats him down efficiently, pulling the key from his jacket. 

"Are you done lying to me now?" the Lady asks.

"Are you?" Ten bites out. 

"Take it down to Alfonso," she addresses the vampire guard. "Tell him he has ten minutes to finish the rest of the preparations." Her eyes find Ten's again and her lips curl up into what can only be described as a refined smirk. "You want the truth? He has five minutes."

"Until what?"

"Until we forge a better path, Mr. Lee." She stands, unbuttoning her blouse. "Bring me my shift," she orders.

Ten pulls against the arms of his captor, but Dior holds him tight. It's too bright to dance away. The light above them hums with the high-pitched buzz of electricity. He's surprised he can still hear it above the pounding of his heart. Below him, Yangyang is on the move, his pulse kicking into overdrive. 

"Let him go. You have what you want."

"Do I?" Her forehead is too tight to even crease. 

He struggles until he hears his wrists creak in Dior's grip. "I brought you the key. I'll take his place."

Her shirt falls to the floor. The narrow curve of her shoulders is thrown into stark relief in the harsh lighting. She's not wearing a bra — wouldn't need one — and he can count each individual rib as his eyes travel down her chest. Her stomach is sunken, almost concave, and so, so pale. She looks like she hasn't fed in years. He has to look away.

"Do I disgust you?" she asks. Her trousers pool on the generic navy office rug. 

"Not for the reasons you think." Ten forces himself to meet her eyes.

"So narrow-minded." One of her minions holds up a silken slip for her step under. It settles around her emaciated body like water. Even so, nearly her entire chest is exposed. "Have you ever been tested, Mr. Lee?"

"You don't need Yangyang," he says instead of answering her question. "Let him go."

"I thought we were being honest with each other."

Dior squeezes down. 

Ten snarls. He has no idea what she means, but sure. Every day he's tested. Tested by Yangyang's snark. Kun's soft brown eyes. His regrets. "Yes."

"I thought so. You have that look. I know it well." Her servant cards through her hair, arranging it neatly behind her back. She taps a foot and they remove her heels reverently, one after another. "Isn't it a beautiful thing, what we can survive? We have many gifts, being what we are. I counted them, one after another, as I was locked in that box. And do you know what I learned?"

The white silk almost blends into her skin. Her pale blond hair is only as shiny as the products she can purchase. The only contrast is the glitter of the jewelry she still wears. A thin gold chain around her neck, the understated gold cross winking in the light. Her hands show off a few rings — a pearl solitaire, a diamond band. And, mocking him from her left hand, Yangyang's silver and garnet present. 

"No," he grits out. 

"No God will come to save us, Mr. Lee. We are the architects of our own destiny. And our bodies deserve the immortality they were promised."

"Please," his shoulders slump. Dior doesn't relax in the slightest. Unfortunately well trained. "You wanted me. I'm here. You have your key. Your… device. Let Yangyang go."

"I'm truly sorry for the misunderstanding," she says, sounding genuinely remorseful. "But the experiments weren't conducted on an _elder_ vampire."

Dread, colder than her own thrumming magic, curls in his gut. "Experiments?"

She looks truly confused. "Yes. Experiments. I thought you would have this all figured out by now. He was your sire, after all."

Ten is transported viscerally back to the study. The orange light of Master Mo's lantern flickering against the paper walls. The smell of ink and books. The tightness of healing skin.

"Have you never thought about why he turned you?" A bony finger taps her thin lips. "All this time stretching out in front of you and yet such a woefully unexamined existence."

"My sensitivity," Ten murmurs, still caught in the past.

She hums. "You were twice blessed. I know you may not be a practitioner of the sciences, Mr. Lee, but surely you can understand variables. Your sire did. He wrote them down so carefully. While your help has been invaluable, it is Mr. Liu's turn to make some sacrifices."

Her words yank him out of his thoughts. He surges forward but Dior's grip doesn't slip in the slightest, jerking him back against his broad chest like a dog who has forgotten their chain. "Let him go!"

"I can't. You have to understand. While Mo Hengzhi was able to design the ritual, he was never able to complete it. We have only theory. Good, well researched theory, of course. And we've supplemented it with our own learnings, but you know magic. Without results to analyse, we must take every precaution. It's not every day you find someone strong enough to be a magical conduit."

His heart pounds in his chest. Yangyang is directly below him now, his blood pumping twice as fast. It's no longer blood; it's liquid fear. With every beat a new piece slides into place, like unlocking the puzzle box holding all the answers.

"You weren't watching me. You were spying on Yangyang." He tugs against Dior's hold just to be annoying. "Badly."

She tilts her head in acquiescence. "You two are a rare breed."

"But you're wrong. We're not conduits. We can sense the arcane but it's not like… that. We do magic the same way everyone else does."

"Oh, Mr. Lee." It's not quite pity in her clear blue eyes. It's much, much colder than that. "You've never once considered that magic might sense you back?"

Ten's mind reels. Magic isn't sentient. Is it? It comes when it's called. It does what it's told. When untamed it can unleash untold destruction. He's always thought of it like a river. Dammed and it can power an entire city or more. But if that dam cracks — devastation. It's why he steers clear of it when he can. He knows more than the average person, of course, but it was hard not to learn at least a few tricks in his business. The idea that magic might actively seek him out is preposterous. 

Except for the way it fills his ears when he summons it. The way it tries to crawl down his throat. To fill him up from the inside instead of doing his bidding. 

There's a soft knock at the door and the vampire who snatched his key pokes her head back in. "They're ready for you, my Lady."

"Finally," Lady Burnett-Cecil sniffs. "Henri, John Mark, keep Mr. Lee company. Restrain him if you have to."

"If you don't know what happens to Yangyang, then you don't know what will happen to you, either," Ten says. It's a desperate salvo. 

She stops short of where her servant holds the office door open. Her retinue stills on a dime. "It is a risk. But wouldn't you take the chance to free yourself from your basest desires? We can be so much more. My body has shown me that."

"Use me," Ten pleads again. His voice catches on the panic welling up in his throat. "Let him go, and use me."

"I can't," she repeats, not unkindly, though her next words are laced with steel. "Besides, it's good practice to have an heir _and_ a spare."

She sweeps out of the plain little room with the pomp of a queen on her way to her coronation. The door locks behind them and Henri finally lets his wrists go. Another vampire, even taller, with eyes that track his every move stands in front of the door.

Dior — Henri — speaks as Ten shakes out his hands. "You may watch. But we are watching you."

The massive office window provides a view of almost the entire warehouse floor, but his eyes only focus on one thing. In the middle of a carefully painted circle is Yangyang, stripped to the waist and chained to the post that was being erected earlier. His head is free from restraints and he snaps and snarls as Banks approaches him. Another vampire, similarly robed, finally has to grab him by the hair. 

It's hard to concentrate with his heart beating so fast, but Ten forces back the rising terror as best he can. He recognizes a few of the runes on the floor. The marking for 'blood' is a common one in vampire-designed arrays. By definition they are best at blood summonings. But this rune is flanked by two others he doesn't quite understand. One looks like a rune for time, but the accents are wrong. The other for food, but again, the strokes look out of order. 

"Henri," he says, "I will pay you a million pounds right now to let me out of here. You, too, John Mark."

Henri makes deliberate eye contact with his partner. He gives a very gallic shrug. "And how do we know you have the money?"

"I'm the best dowser in the world," Ten answers. "My rates are exorbitant."

"What do you think, John Mark?" Henri asks. He says it in the French style, Jean-Marc.

John Mark lifts an eyebrow.

"Good point." Henri turns back to Ten, smile playing on his face. His jaw is a little too square, his nose was clearly broken before he was turned, but he'd be handsome in a different circumstance. "We think a million is too low."

"Whatever she's paying, I will double it."

From the door, John Mark chuckles. His laugh is a low, rumbling bass that has every hair on Ten's body standing on edge.

"How can you double infinity?" Henri asks.

"What?"

"That is what Madame offers us. Immortality."

Ten shakes his head. "You've been one of us what, forty, fifty years? Believe me, it gets old, quickly."

"Ah, you still don't get it." They share another one of their private glances.

He bristles. "Some people might consider my night to be a little bit stressful. So maybe we can all stop speaking in riddles and just say what we fucking mean."

"Calmez-vous Mr. Lee. John Mark does not appreciate such coarse language."

Ten folds his arms and stares blankly out the window. Candles blaze around the perimeter of the large ritual array. Banks walks the circle slowly. It's too far away to see, but Ten would bet he's spilling salt from his hand. Inside, the Lady stands facing Yangyang, her face calm, almost serene, even. The vampire mage still has his hands fisted in Yangyang's hair, holding him still.

"Madame has found a way to offer us true immortality. Not vampirism. Something more. Without bloodlust. Without the beastial urges. She was tested for a year by men who called themselves godly. The bloodlust did not consume her like it had so many others. Instead, she had a vision. And we wish for that future, too."

"Impossible," Ten whispers.

"Non," Henri replies. "Nothing is impossible. Sometimes it simply takes more magic than a single person can muster without a conduit."

Henri joins Ten by the window, watching silently as Banks brandishes an athame. First, he makes a cut in the palm of the Lady's hand, collecting the blood that drips from her in a ceremonial gold goblet. It's more ostentatious than any ritual ever needs. It takes a few minutes for him to be satisfied. The athame flashes again and Yangyang jerks as it bites through the flesh of his arm. His blood flows faster, swirling into the cup. Mixing together. Ten puts a hand to the glass.

"Calmez-vous," Henri repeats.

"You be calm," Ten hisses back. 

The glass is thick, but not shatter proof. Maybe if he could hurl the chair at it. But then the drop would be too much, especially with how little he's eaten in the last few days. And that's only if he could somehow disable Henri and the far more capable-looking John Mark. Without the muddling ruse of the Lady's collection of magical artifacts, he can feel her entire coterie as they stalk through the warehouse. There are at least another ten vampires, maybe as many as twelve or fourteen if they're patrolling in pairs, and half of them elders.

Even if he got past his guards. Even if he could get down to the warehouse floor. There's no way he could get to Yangyang without being eviscerated on the way. 

He leans hard on the glass. Yangyang struggles against his bindings, but the vampire holding him must retaliate because his pulse spikes. Banks dips his fingers in the blood, tracing out a small array on his naked chest. It's far too small for Ten to see properly. Banks turns and draws another array between the valley of the Lady's breasts. It's not centered properly, he thinks wildly. And then with another jolt of horror he realizes the runes circle her heart. 

Despite the distance, Ten feels the rush of magic prickle across his skin. It isn't focused on him, building in pitch within the salt circle of the array. The hem of the Lady's slip flutters as it dances at her feet. So many runes and still directionless.

Banks barks something at his helpers, and they surround Yangyang, prying his mouth open. A slow smile creaks across the Lady's face, her eyes gleaming as Banks holds the brass device up. The candle light flickers orange across the polished metal, making it shine like topaz. With the slow press of a man trying to force feed a struggling cat, Banks inserts the device into Yangyang's mouth. The large bulb of it billows out his cheeks. His eyes flutter shut.

"Yangyang," Ten whispers.

The key glitters as Banks raises it aloft. He mutters something — mages love a good ritual chant, even though they're completely unnecessary in Ten's experience — and inserts it into the device. Magic howls in the circle. Ten shivers in his makeshift prison. 

A twist of his hand and Yangyang's head snaps back violently. Magic pours, sparking white, pure and unadulterated, through the device and into his body. His scream pierces through the gag, though the glass of the window. Ten's knees give out. He slumps against the cheap paneling of the office wall. Pain shoots through his body, every vein full of needles. It's just an echo of what is happening to his progeny.

"They're killing him," he gasps. "Henri, they're killing him."

Henri doesn't respond. Ten chokes back another groan. 

There's a popping sound and the entire warehouse goes black. The faintest glow of candle light still reaches the office casting long shadows across the navy carpet.

"What the fuck is this?" John Mark says.

"I don't know," Henri snaps. 

There's shouting from below. 

Ten's neck cracks as he stretches it, standing. "I think that's my cue, amis."

"You don't fucking move," John Mark snarls.

Ten smirks. "Nice to meet you, too, John Mark. I hope we never see each other again." With a wiggle of his fingers he steps into the shadow and through the dark. 

He lands hard on the concrete floor. 

All around him is chaos. In the dark, everything has been thrown into grayscale. Only the candles provide the occasional flash of colour. His other senses do their best to compensate, but it's too loud already, his skin overwhelmed with the magic in the air. He can hear the Lady's vampires shouting at each other as they scramble to figure out what is going on. Behind him, there's the screech of metal as a door is thrown open. He can smell the ozone of an array being triggered. And over it all, the high, thready scream coming from Yangyang as the magic surges through him.

Banks' jaw tightens as he chants, trying to ignore the sudden pandemonium. Magic whips around the five of them — Banks' acolytes eyes go wide — pulling at their clothes. The Lady's hair floats along with it, the fine strands like spider webs. Banks dips his fingers in the chalice again, and signs a new rune in the air. Ten recognizes this one as soon as he begins it: transference. 

The magic does, too, arcing out from the array on Yangyang's heart and diving into its match on the Lady's sunken chest. She lets out a strangled gasp, but doesn't stumble. Her fingers flex like they're digging into something, but there's nothing but air. White light spreads through her veins, mapping each one like the tube. The roar of it grows louder and louder. Yangyang's voice breaks and he goes limp, only held up by the pole and the chains that bind him to it.

Ten snaps out of his horrified haze. Yangyang's pain is still palpable. He's not dead, not while his heart beats, but it's close. He sprints for the circle. A howl echoes through the warehouse, shivering down his spine. 

A vampire steps into his path, swiping at him with an outstretched hand, but the dark is, as always, his constant friend. Ten vanishes into a shadow. He pops out just a few feet behind him, still running. Already he can feel the drag on his muscles, the exhaustion settling in quickly. It doesn't matter, though. He needs to get to Yangyang.

It's one of the acolytes that spots him first. He turns with a shout but he can't do much, trapped inside the salt. Banks locks onto him with a glare that would burn him to the spot. Like he's daring him to do something stupid. Clearly he doesn't know Ten as well as he thinks. Stupid might as well be his middle name at this point.

Ten throws himself to the ground, skidding into the array feet first, head tucked to his chest protectively. Time seems to slow as his boot makes contact with the careful line of salt. He can feel the array ripple as the first grain goes flying. Then, all at once, the magic seems to sense it, too.

With a rushing, sucking sound, it pulls itself from the two vampires, spinning tighter and tighter, a blazing ball of pure power. Banks yells, frantically trying to draw a rune in the air, but it's too late. 

The magic explodes outward in a wave of force.

Even on the floor, Ten is catapulted from the circle. He skips along the concrete like a stone, crashing into a stack of discarded pallets. They shatter with the force of his impact, shards of treated wood flying everywhere. He can feel a few splinters lodge in the backs of his hands. Bruises flower on his back. His left knee falters as he pushes himself woozily to his feet. Pain lances through him as he puts weight on that leg. 

"Yangyang!" he shouts. The heartbeat is faint, barely there.

Gritting his teeth, he drags himself back across the floor to where the array is. Without the swirl of magic, it's just decorative paint. Yangyang's head lolls against the post as Ten runs his hands over his face, checking the pulse in his neck. 

Around them are the sounds of fighting. He can't even tell how many people are here any more. His nerves are fried. It's like the explosion overloaded all of his circuits and now there's nothing left of him but a shell of a body. Muscle and bone and what's left of his blood. He doesn't think he could shadowdance if he tried. Another howl comes from his left but all he can see is Yangyang's slack face.

The key has been mangled but it turns in his trembling hands, closing the device's petals. As gently as he can, he pries it from Yangyang's mouth. His eyes blink open, unfocused and fuzzy. 

"Ten-ge?" His voice is hoarse, barely more than a whisper.

"Hey, baby, it's me," Ten stutters. "Let's get you out of here, okay."

"I feel funny," he mumbles.

Ten can't keep his face neutral — the dried blood on Yangyang's chest is flaking away, revealing the raised pink of a new scar. His hands shake as he feels for the ties holding Yangyang up. "I know, baby. I know."

"Ten," Yangyang chokes out but that's the only warning he gets.

A blade buries itself in his back, twisting viciously. His cry is piercing but his heart keeps pumping, the knife missing its target by millimetres. There's an answering shriek from nearby and the wet splat of viscera hitting the hard concrete. "Oh _fuck!"_ someone shouts. Maybe Dejun. For all he can tell it's an auditory hallucination of his ringing ears.

He shoves his elbow back blindly, connecting with the soft flesh of someone's stomach. He spins. Banks stumbles back, the athame sliding from his back with a squelch. His body tries in vain to stem the flow of blood, but he's so tired. So weak already.

Eyes blazing, Banks spits in his hand and begins drawing an array in the air. Magic crackles at his fingertips. Tiny fires spark into larger ones. Ten throws himself in front of Yangyang and braces for impact.

A hand grabs the back of Banks' neck and the flames douse. His eyes roll back in pleasure as Sicheng steps into him. His uniform is dirty, shirt flecked with blood, his face grim. Banks convulses against him once, then twice, and Sicheng lets go. Unconscious, he lands on the ground like a sack of potatoes. Sicheng jerks his head at Yangyang before turning to stare down another vampire barreling at him. 

Ten doesn't need any more encouragement. He slips around the post, tearing at the knots until one by one they loosen. Yangyang collapses onto his hands and knees, stomach heaving. Ten kneels next to him. He strokes down his back as comfortingly as he can while keeping one eye on Sicheng as he weaves and ducks around the other vampire's attacks. He moves with the grace of a dancer.

Vomit splatters on the ground, pulling his attention back to his progeny.

"That's it, baby. Let out." Ten rubs his neck.

"Must've been the dumplings," Yangyang jokes weakly. 

"Must be. Can you…" 

His question gets cut off with a yelp as a bony hand buries itself in his hair and yanks him back. Lady Burnett-Cecil flings down with a strength belied by her thin, frail body. His chin cracks against the floor, agony radiating up his entire jaw.

"Who do you think you are, Mr. Lee," she spits.

Her face is red with blood. Some drips down from an open gash on her forehead. Already, though, it looks as if it's healing. She had been caught directly in the blast, flung like he was. Like Yangyang would have been if he weren't tied down. But her mouth is red with it, like she's drunk deep and messy. Hastily. Ten barely has time to hope the sacrifice came from one of her own before she's hauling him to his feet by the throat.

"Immortality was in my grasp." Her fingers tighten around his windpipe as she holds him aloft. His feet kick uselessly. She tosses him aside with a screech of sheer fury. "Now look at what I have become." 

Ten lands on his back, the impact punching a pained groan from him. Dimly, he can hear the sounds of fighting intensify. Barks and screams echoing off the high ceiling. It's not how he imagined himself dying: beaten to death in the middle of a mostly empty warehouse in Vancouver. He thought maybe it would be an accident. He deals with enough volatile artifacts that it's likely enough. When he was younger, he thought maybe a hunter. Back when that wasn't considered murder. He'd met one, once, in Milan. One of his first jobs. It had been the late '60s, and they were both wearing the tackiest suits. Fucking Italians.

"They thought they could stop me, too." Her bare feet don't make a sound as she stalks over to where he lays. "Chained me up in that box for over a year. Nothing to eat. Only the muttering of their prayers. The chants of exorcisms. I can still hear it sometimes."

Her gold cross is gone — there's a wound across her neck where it must have chafed as it was ripped away by the explosion — but the rings all glitter in the few candles still burning bright. Yangyang's ring still glitters.

"My body knew it was greater than that struggle, though," she says, foot digging into his ribs. He gasps as one cracks. "They couldn't stop me from breaking through the wood and the chains and their bodies. And you will not either."

She lands another swift kick and he groans curling into a ball. But even through the pain he can't help the sound that escapes.

Ten giggles.

The snarl that rips from her throat is almost feral. Completely inhuman. Her delicate foot prods at his chest with sharp little jabs until he's forced to roll over, entirely at her mercy. She steps on him, pinning him in place.

"Do not laugh at me."

The giggles don't stop. Her foot slams down on his ribcage and he can feel another bone snap. He coughs up blood, but behind it, the laughter is insatiable. 

"Does this feel like a joke to you, Ten Lee?" Her foot is a thousand pound weight on his chest. He wraps his fingers around her skinny ankle but he can't budge her. He's long held a theory that vampire magic manifests how the elder needs it most. He was given one way to escape. She was given another. 

"It must have hurt," Ten wheezes. "The explosion. Like never before."

"Is that really what you want to say before you die?" 

He can feel his chest caving in as she pushes down and down.

"I need to tell you something," he gasps out.

Her cold, blue eyes stare down at him, impassive. The pressure on his chest eases. Her lip curls into a sneer. "What?"

Ten looks back, unflinching. "I don't speak Italian."

He lunges forward, fangs finding just the edge of her calf. But it's enough. He tears at her flesh. She shrieks, shaking her leg like he's a dog chewing on her trousers. He clings to her with every last ounce of his strength, biting and ripping at whatever he can reach. Blood pours down his chin, and he swallows what he can. He needs to hold on. It's the only hope he has left.

Her face contorts with anguish. If a prick becomes a stab, his bites must be a shotgun straight to the heart. Every one amplified by the ring she thought would protect her. She batters at him with fists, her blows growing weaker and weaker until the tremors wracking her body become convulsions. With one last seizure, her screeching ends, her body tumbling to the floor like a rag doll.

Ten doesn't move. Doesn't even pull his fangs out until he can't feel any part of her pulse. His jacket is covered in her blood. It streams down his chest. He still doesn't want to move. If he uncurls himself from around her leg then his body will start hurting. More than it already does. Already he can hear the sounds of fighting filtering through his brain. He might still die here. Maybe they haven't yet realized their Master is dead. Maybe they have.

He doesn't move until Sicheng crouches down next to him, laying a soothing hand on his forehead. It feels indescribably good.

"Ten, you need to get up."

He blinks up at the handsome man, almost drunk on the sensation. "Are you a healer?"

"No. I'm just tricking your brain into feeling less pain." 

Sicheng extends a hand but Ten waves it off. The minute his touch disappears, the pain comes roaring back. 

"Go help Yangyang." He winces as he slowly pushes himself to his feet. Lady Burnett-Cecil's body lays next to him in a heap. Her icy eyes are glassy and bloodshot. Blood trickles, sluggish from her slack jaw. "I wish we could take her head."

"No time," Sicheng says. He turns and jogs back over to a dazed Yangyang, helping him to his feet.

"Ten!" Dejun shouts from above. "Run! Kun's..."

Dejun doesn't finish his warning. He doesn't need to.

Red eyes meet his as Kun fixates on him from across the room.


	14. Chapter 14

_The moon wasn't all the way to full, but it had waxed enough to provide light on his stroll back from the village. There had been a troupe performing in the square. They were good enough to hold his attention, though they lacked some of the daring his old companions had. Not that it had done them any good. Maybe it was better to risk less if the reward was still a pittance. Ten threw an extra few coins on their blanket because he had them to spare, now._

_It was quiet along the path through the bamboo woods. Always was, when they were out. Most animals avoided them. A natural sense of self-preservation. Insects, though, lacked the same instincts. Mosquitoes buzzed around his ears. It had been a rainy summer so far, and they had bred like crazy in the puddles near the stream._

_Ten swung the package as he walked, humming a song he'd overheard. More books, probably. Master Mo was always ordering books. He didn't dare open the wrapping, though. That was at least five strokes._

_"I'm back," he called, stepping into the clearing. The lanterns on the house flickered in the breeze. No one answered. He could feel them both as he bounced up the front steps. "I have your package, Master."_

_The door slid open easily but no one was sitting in their living space. Usually, Kun would at least be waiting for him to return. He turned down the short hall to the Master's study, slowing to a calmer, steadier demeanor. Always approach the Master with decorum. It had been burned into him enough over the years._

_He knocked, but even after several moments there was no answer. It didn't take much to feel the twin shivers of vampiric magic coming from the study. With another knock, he carefully slid open the door, bowing deeply._

_"Sorry to interrupt, but you told me to bring your package directly, Master."_

_A wet, rasping noise made him look up._

_His sire lay on the floor, throat shredded. His teeth rattled, tongue clicking wildly as he tried to speak, but there was no air available for words._

_Kun crouched over him. Slowly his head swiveled in Ten's direction. His red eyes bore into him, more predator than man. Blood coated his chin, his neck, the front of his normally pristine jacket. He spat out a chunk of flesh. Their Master's flesh._

_Ten's eyes widened in horror. Adrenaline surged through his bloodstream. Kun's fingers twitched. His entire body snapped into action, a bow string ready to release. He spun, books falling from his hand as he dashed back down the hall._

_A snarl came from behind him. His lover was gone, consumed by the bloodlust that made them. Kun's footsteps fell heavily behind him as he burst from the house. It spurred him on faster. His legs flew as he darted into the bamboo. It didn't matter how hard he pushed his body. The growling grew closer, fueled by the need to hunt. To kill. A need they all suppressed until it spilled over._

_His heart pounded in his chest, Kun's a beat behind. He ran like the prey he was. Desperate and unthinking. He tripped on a rock, losing momentum. Kun's bloody fingers grazed the back of his jacket, but he twisted out of his hold, serpentining off the path. It wasn't enough. It wouldn't ever be enough. He was going to die, running from the man he loved._

_Magic coursed through his veins, cold against the heat of his blood. It made him cry out. It hurt, like plunging his hand into ice, but he couldn't stop. He risked a glance behind him. There was nothing but the black of the night and Kun's red, red eyes._

_He stumbled again, and then there was nothing but the black._

————

Ten freezes. He is a deer. A rabbit. A mouse. Trapped by those eyes. Trapped by his own memories. 

The red of Kun's eyes burns into him. Feral. That's what it's called. When you can't hold back your own need to kill any longer. There's nothing of a man in those eyes. They are a panther's. He even moves like one. Unhurried. One foot in front of the other. 

Distantly, he can hear someone yelling their names. Dejun. It's Dejun. There's a howl from his right and Lucas comes bolting out of the periphery, cream and black and half wolf, lowering his shoulder and tackling Kun hard. They both go flying to the ground.

Lucas tries to get a grip to pin him but like this Kun is faster. The bloodlust gives him new strength, and he rolls them both until he's the one on top snapping for Lucas' neck. The werewolf's long arms push him back over and over. Kun growls again, instead sinking his teeth into Lucas' forearm. The wolf yelps in pain. 

The cry clangs against Ten's brain forcing him to move. To do something.

"Lucas!" Dejun bellows from his perch on the upper level. His voice cracks with fear.

Ten tries to jog but his knee wobbles dangerously. So he walks, clutching his chest so his ribs move less. It would be the height of irony if his heart was pierced by his own bones after all of this. Kun's eyes track Ten even as he sucks at the shifter blood flooding his mouth. 

"Kun-ge," Ten says. He stops, just a few metres between them. "Come back to me, gege."

Lucas whines. He's clearly holding back, trying not to rip into his boss with his claws. Kun's gaze flicks down to him again.

"Kun!" Ten sheds his jacket. The metal studs clink as it lands on the hard floor. Without it, he's naked from the waist up, bruises from the Lady's blows already dark as blood rushes to fix his battered body. It's not how he would choose to present himself, but needs must.

With a shake and a snarl, Kun finally relaxes his jaw. Lucas pulls his arm free. Kun rises to his feet deliberately, eyes locked on Ten. He shivers under that stare, staying put even as his instincts scream at him to flee.

At the edge of his vision, he sees Lucas gather himself, but he can't look away from Kun. Always arresting Kun. In just a few strides, Kun is right in front of him, face too close as he inspects his prey. Ten holds perfectly still. Kun breathes him in, mouth open, tongue working like a snake's. Like he can taste him on the air. Maybe like this he can. 

Kun's face is dark with patches of dried blood. It's flicked into his blond hair, too, hard brown dots. And still, somehow, he smells like himself. Like piney body wash and vaguely floral laundry detergent. Kun tilts his head, his nose skating along the line of Ten's exposed neck. It almost tickles, except for the accompanying drag of fang along the sensitive skin. 

The growl that escapes from him is barely a whisper of one, like Ten has passed muster. His mouth, lips slippery with Lucas' blood, trails over Ten's shoulder. Kun's tongue flicks out, tasting his skin. His fangs catch on the marks he left barely an hour ago. Ten's pulse races. He wonders if Kun can feel it still. 

He bites down. Ten can't stop the grunt that he exhales because it fucking _hurts_. Kun's bitten him hundreds of times — from the slow, sensual glide of teeth, to the playful nips that barely draw blood — but never like this. This is a feeding. He drinks and drinks until Ten feels faint with it. Still he doesn't move, doesn't push him away. 

Kun's fingers twitch, skimming up his sides, like they are trying to map their territory. It would tickle if he wasn't in agony. The fangs retreat, tongue still laving gently along the wound for a long moment. Kun turns his head, resting his cheek on top of the bloody mess he made.

"Chittaphon?" he whispers. 

Ten's arms wrap around him of their own volition, pulling them tight together. It hurts, too, but it's worth it to feel the way their heartbeats synch. "There you are."

Kun seems content to stay put, even pressing his face deeper into the crook of Ten's neck. Behind them, Sicheng says something to Lucas, who laughs in response. He must be human again. Footsteps clang as Dejun jogs down the metal stairs. There are groans from the vampires lying injured on the warehouse floor. He threads his fingers into Kun's hair, scritching at his scalp.

"I'm sorry," Kun mumbles against his skin. And then, "You didn't run."

"I think I'm done running." He leans his own cheek on the hard pillow of Kun's head.

"Oh. Good. That's good."

"I thought you were working on your anger issues, babe," Ten replies. 

Kun huffs, a short puff of mirth that sends the good kind of shivers down his spine. "Maybe you should stop trying to get yourself killed." His hands settle on Ten's waist like they belong there. 

"Wow, victim blaming much," Ten teases. His heart flutters against the twenty ribs that aren't cracked. He could stay in this strange slow dance forever, he decides. 

Of course, there's a pained squawk from behind them that breaks into their reverie.

"What the fuck?" Sicheng yells. 

Ten whines into Kun's hair. "Can't we get five bloody seconds?"

"Ten?" Yangyang calls, voice verging on panic. "Ten, what's happening?"

"Oh fuck," Kun says as he lifts his head. "Ten."

He turns, unsteady on his feet, ready to bitch at whoever he needs to, but the words die on his lips. A few metres away Yangyang stands looking down at himself in terror as flames lick up his entire body.

"Fuck, okay." Ten shuffles towards him the best he can. Kun offers him a shoulder for support but he shrugs it off. "This is just your eldering. Our sire was a firestarter, too. It's okay."

"It feels weird," Yangyang says. He lifts his hand like a torch.

Ten nods, but keeps his voice soft. "Does it hurt?" 

"No? It's just… weird."

"He's young to be eldering," Kun murmurs just for Ten's ears. 

"He's a prodigy," Ten retorts.

Kun snorts, but drops it. 

"Ten?" Yangyang's fire starts to glow white hot at the edges. Underneath him, the concrete cracks, denaturing from the intense heat. "What do I do?"

"Um, think cold thoughts!" 

Lucas perks up, head swiveling towards the warehouse door. "Do you guys hear that?"

Yangyang's face scrunches up as he concentrates. Slowly, the flames start flickering out. Ten sighs in relief. His breath fogs in the air as the temperature in the warehouse drops suddenly. 

"What the fuck?" he says, shivering. 

Frost spreads out from Yangyang's bare feet, drawing crystalline spirals on the floor. "Ten!" he yelps. "What's happening!"

Sicheng scrambles back as the frost tries to climb his boot. "You have to control yourself!"

"I don't know how! I'm not doing anything!" Yangyang pleads hysterically. "I'm not doing it!"

"Spring!" Dejun shouts at him, jogging up to join them. "Think about spring!"

"Spring?" Kun asks.

Dejun just shrugs. "It's in between?"

"Guys, I hear police sirens," Lucas yells. 

Above them, thunder claps. A monsoon breaks over them, soaking them in moments. It's warm, though, like a spring thunderstorm.

"Ten!" Yangyang hiccups. "What is happening to me!"

"Yangyang, you've got to calm down!" Ten shouts over the pouring rain.

"I'm not doing anything!"

"It's not your fault, baby." Ten takes a few steps closer. Even with his night vision it's hard to see through the sheets of water. 

"I don't know what to do!" 

A wave of force explodes out from him, knocking Ten off his feet. He hits the wet concrete with a slap. Groaning, he rolls onto his back, letting the rain wash over him as pain threatens to split his head in two. If there is a God, and he cares at all about Ten's well-being, his vial of headache oil will have survived the night. 

"Yangyang," Kun's voice rings out above the thunder, commanding. Laced with the power of his thrall. "Go to sleep."

Yangyang blinks once, rain clinging to his lashes like the tears he can't shed. His head bobs down to his chest. Then, with another confused blink, he crumples to the ground, unconscious.

The rain stops immediately. The puddle soaking into Ten's hair remains the only proof it had ever happened in the first place. He forces himself to sit up. The sirens are close enough now that he can hear them, too. He scrubs a hand down his face. At least the freak shower rinsed most of the blood off him. 

"Okay. So maybe he's not eldering." Kun helps him back up. Ten leans on him, grateful. Every part of him is sore. "Did you really have to?"

Kun shrugs. "It seemed like the best way to keep him from panicking further and drowning us in here."

"Don't breathe. Can't drown," Ten replies automatically.

"You know what I mean."

"Kun," Lucas says, "Cops. What do we do?"

Kun glances at Ten. "I'll follow your lead."

"Really?" Ten blinks at him in surprise. "But you're the boss-boss."

"She tried to kill _your_ progeny."

"Bitch." He quells the rage that springs up inside him at the thought. "And then she tried to kill me."

"Bitch," Kun concedes, a smile playing on his otherwise serious face.

"Okay then. My lead." 

Ten gives himself a moment to fully take in the scene for the first time. There's no light but what filters in from the high windows, reflecting off the water pooled on the concrete. The torrential rain did little to chip away at the white paint of the ritual circle. Ropes pool at the base of the sacrificial post. Ten shuffles over to the lump of Banks' body, crouching like a man of eighty. Banks is breathing, pulse steady. At least they didn't kill the human. Ten collects the brass device from where he dropped it, pocketing the mangled key. After another few seconds of debate, he walks over to the Lady's body and pulls off the ring. L'anello di go-fuck-yourself. 

In the dark, he can pick out a few more bodies, most of them near the main entrance where Kun's team had stormed in to save the day. Some of them twitch and moan, still alive. There are certainly fewer than he had expected. Clearly part of her coterie escaped, likely after they felt their Master perish.

From above he hears a pounding on glass. Henri's face, enraged, and John Mark's, placid, plastered against the thick window of the office. There's a makeshift barricade in front of the office door, trapping them inside. Probably Dejun's doing. Smart kid. 

"Okay," Ten says again, mostly to steady himself. From the sound of the sirens they don't have long. "Dejun, Sicheng, take Yangyang home. Be careful. Try to keep him asleep since we don't… Just try to keep him asleep." 

He walks over and presses the device into Sicheng's palm. "Put this somewhere safe. I'll collect it later. No one says a word of what happened here until Kun and I get back. To anyone. Understood?"

They nod, eyes dark and serious. 

"Lucas, you'll need to stay here too. I'm betting there are some wounds I won't be able to explain otherwise."

He grins, unfairly handsome after such an exhausting evening. His shirt is in tatters, both from shifting and a few slashes, but already his wounds are healing on their own. Lucky shifter bastard. Ten is dying for a drink. He runs a hand across his bare chest, poking at his own bruise. 

"What are you waiting for? Go!"

After a mild squabble, Dejun hoists Yangyang onto his back and they head into the night. Ten retrieves his jacket, now just as wet as everything else. His phone's screen is shattered and it won't even turn on. His oil, however, is blessedly intact. He rubs some on his temples reverently. It barely makes a dent in the headache, but it's enough.

It's enough.

————

The paramedics took one look at Ten's bruises and ushered him to the back of the truck, though he categorically refused to go to the hospital. Katie, a blonde EMT with a heart-shaped face, argued back for a good five minutes. Ultimately, Ten relented just a smidge, letting her wrap his ribs and press a pouch of synth into his hands.

It isn't very good, but drinking it from a straw is a novel experience at least. His feet don't touch the ground as he sits between the open doors of the ambulance. Cops swarm all over the warehouse, taping the scene off, taking pictures, being a general nuisance. Lucas, who looked almost untouched by the time they finally arrived, gives a statement to a stern-faced man in a brown leather jacket and wrinkled khakis.

Kun watches them all work, arms crossed.

"Come sit." Ten pats the bumper next to him. "You can't glare them into being more efficient."

"Watch me," he grumbles, but he sits, too, sucking at the straw when Ten offers him a drink. 

"Of course the great Qian Kun could organize this chaos. What can't he do?" He lets Ten knock their shoulders together companionably, but Kun doesn't smile. Ten brushes a lock of wet hair out of his face. Or tries to. Kun catches him mid-act, tangling their fingers together. "What's the matter?"

He looks down at their joined hands. "I don't get how you can do this all the time."

"Do what," Ten prods gently. 

"Be so sweet when you don't trust me enough to let me in, even a little bit. Even when," he drops his voice, "Yangyang's life is on the line."

"Kun," he starts.

"No. You could have told me. I had to hear it from Lucas, of all people. And only like a full day after he'd been taken. What if they'd killed him before you got there?"

"They wouldn't have."

"It was a gamble!" Kun's eyes flash but he doesn't let go. 

Ten squeezes his hand. "They needed the key. I knew they'd never give up their leverage as long as I was their best chance at finding it. It was a risk, but," he swallows, afraid to look Kun in the eye, "a calculated one."

"A calculated risk." Kun sighs. "You're unbelievable."

"Thank you?" Ten steals a glimpse at him. His hair is drying funny, thanks to their impromptu rainstorm. His shirt hangs limp, torn in several places from the fight. There's no saving it. The lean line of his collarbone peeks out from where he's missing buttons. 

He shakes his head but this time he does smile. "I didn't mean it as a compliment."

"Sometimes you have to read between the lines for the compliments," Ten says breezily, though the sputtering beat of his heart surely gives him away.

Kun's thumb strokes over the back of his hand. "You could have just asked. I would have given it to you."

"You said you wouldn't help." 

"That was self-preservation! I was trying to protect myself from... From I don't know. Watching you get hurt. Watching you walk away." Kun finally turns to look at him. "Which, obviously, stupidly, I did anyway. But if you had told me why, I would have given it up in a heartbeat. You really thought I wouldn't?"

It's hard to shrug with his ribs bundled up like a toddler after a fresh snow, but he tries. "You seemed pretty adamant."

"Ten," he says, pained. 

Which, fuck. That isn't what Ten wants at all. 

"But I. Was also. Maybe. Being a little selfish," he admits. It's almost more painful than having his chest crushed.

"May-be," Kun repeats.

"Okay, a lot selfish. I thought I was going to die! And I just," he has to pause, half for the right words and half to calm the racing of his pulse. Their pulses. "I just missed you. And I wanted to take a piece of you with me. I trust you, Qian Kun." 

Ten pulls their hands up so he can kiss the back of Kun's. "I trust you with my life. And I'm sorry I failed your 'don't steal the key while I'm in the bathroom' test."

"It wasn't a test," Kun mutters, but with the extra blood in his system, he can't hide his blush. 

Ten cackles. "So you _did_ know."

"I didn't!" he protests. Ten pokes him in the side until he grins wide enough to show off his dimples. "I may have had a suspicion."

It's almost too much for his poor heart. Ten buries his face in Kun's shoulder because he can. Because somehow, he's conned this man into letting him walk all over him. It's more than he'll ever deserve. He's not sure if he believes in God with a big G, or gods with little g's, or karma or anything other than the magic of the world, but surely he must've done something right to be rewarded like this. Probably when he was a child. Saved a bug that turned out to be a benevolent spirit cursed with a mortal form. Something like that.

Kun's shirt is soft, the curve of his shoulder hard, muscular. If he squints, the flashing lights of the police cars in the parking lot look like blinking Christmas lights.

"You found me anyway," Ten says, though it's muffled by the fabric.

Kun hums. He pulls their hands over to rest atop his heart. "Blood calls to blood." He lets their hearts beat together, a soothing backdrop to the restless police chatter and the crackle of their radios as they catalogue the scene. "Once Lucas told me everything, I couldn't not. I felt you dying in there, you know? I could feel it." 

Ten squeezes his hand hard. "My knight in feral armor."

That startles a chuckle out of him.

"Thank you," Ten says, because he hasn't yet. It's not a lot, in the balance of things Kun deserves from him, but he can start there. "For being my cavalry."

"I'd say anytime, but I really don't want this to be a habit." Still, Kun brushes a kiss over the back of his knuckles. Then he frowns. "Oh my god, you planned it. You knew I'd come for you. Ten!"

"I didn't!" Kun tries to pull away and Ten clings to him like a baby koala. "Okay, it wasn't a plan. There was no planning. But maybe a little hoping."

"Maybe," he says, dry as the desert. "Unbelievable."

"The lights were a nice touch," Ten says. "Couldn't have gotten away from those two idiots otherwise."

He nods at the police car where Henri and John Mark sit, cuffed, in the back seat. Neither had seemed inclined to talk without the vampire liaison present, which suited Ten just fine. 

"Dejun's idea, actually."

"He's a good kid."

Kun finally relaxes, wrapping an arm around Ten. It's getting cold, even with the extra synth hitting his system. "The best."

"Do you think…" 

Ten's question gets cut off as the detective who was speaking with Lucas approaches. He looks tired, and not just rolled-out-of-bed-at-two-in-the-morning-for-vampire-bullshit tired. His grey-streaked hair is the kind of unbrushed, unstyled mess of a man who no longer cares about hair, and the bags under his eyes need more than a good night's rest and a Korean sheet mask to go away. 

"Which one of you is Ten Lee?"

"I am," Ten answers, straightening up. He's still shirtless under his jacket, bruised, though the worst of bite — Kun's work — is sealing up. It's not how he would prefer to speak to an authority. But it's not like he has much of a choice. He smiles, with just enough genuine exhaustion in his eyes that he hopes it's sympathetic.

"You're British."

"I am," he says. He has to bite back the snarkier answers. 

The man jots something down in his dogeared reporters notebook. "My name's Detective LeBrun. I know Officer Tremblay took your statements earlier, but I'd like you to come down to the station with me to go over some of the details."

"Is there a problem, Detective?" Kun asks. It's a voice that's playing nice.

"Is there?" 

"No," Ten says. "We're happy to help."

Detective LeBrun doesn't frown outright, however a wrinkle appears between his eyebrows like he hates everything about his life, but specifically a cooperative subject. "Great. Tremblay!" he barks. The slim man in a Vancouver PD uniform jogs over, unperturbed. "Take them to the station. I'll be right behind."

Tremblay smiles at them, apologetic as the Detective stomps off to yell at someone else. Just one more obstacle between him and rest. Kun squeezes his shoulder. At least he's not trying to climb this mountain alone.

————

The vampire liaison takes one look at the bedraggled Kun sitting in one of the station's uncomfortable plastic chairs and swears under her breath. She walks right back out of the interview room, mobile in hand. 

Kun does his best to look impassive, but Ten can see the pleased smirk hanging out on the corner of his mouth. A confident Kun is absolutely one of his favourite versions.

Detective LeBrun, on the other hand, runs a hand through his messy hair, making the whole bedhead situation even worse. He sighs. "So you're telling me some cult kidnapped you, chained you up as a magical sacrifice, and you have no idea why?"

"It's no secret that I'm magically sensitive," Ten says. "I suspect that's why? But it's not like there was some big supervillain monologue. I'm not James Bond."

"And it's just a coincidence that this happened on the longest night of the year."

Ten's jaw drops as he does the mental math. Fuck, he's so stupid. Like, the stupidest. If he had ever looked at a fucking calendar and not just his phone maybe he would have seen this coming.

LeBrun raises an eyebrow.

"I can honestly say I didn't realize it was the solstice. But no, I doubt it is a coincidence. Tonight is basically vampire new year."

"And what do you mean by that?" He asks, glancing up at the camera in the corner. It looks old. They probably aren't even showing up on the footage, just a couple of disembodied voices.

Kun clears his throat. "Tonight we're more in tune with the world, magically. In a manner of speaking. Bigger rituals get a natural boost. They were probably counting on that."

"And you're familiar with this ritual, Mr. Qian?"

"No, I can't say I am."

Their thighs press together underneath the small table. Ten's not sure who started it first, maybe him, maybe Kun, but neither one has made any effort to move away. It's reassuring to feel the warmth of him along with the unwavering thump of his heartbeat.

LeBrun drains the rest of his cup of coffee. "And you, Mr. Lee. You're sure you've never seen this ritual before?"

"I think I would remember if someone had ever tried to sacrifice me before." The best way to lie is to tell the truth. 

Silence settles into the room, as uncomfortable as the chairs they're sitting on. The detective's blunt fingers drum on the metal table top. His pinky runs a hair faster than the rest of them, the unintentional syncopation almost more irritating than his questions. Still, Ten refuses to be the one to break the stalemate.

"So," LeBrun sighs, changing tactics. "There were a lot of cult members that we picked up. Seems like a lot for two men to deal with."

"There was an explosion," Ten states. "It helped." 

"Lucas, my bodyguard, was there, too. He's a werewolf," Kun adds. 

Ten nods. 

"Okay. Right. And you and Mr. Wong both thought it was a better idea to attack this cult than to call in the authorities. To help your kidnapped friend."

Kun shrugs, sheepish. "I wasn't really thinking. I just wanted to find him." His knee presses harder against Ten's. "I didn't expect any of that to happen."

More truths. The furrow between LeBrun's eyebrows returns. "You realize some of what you've done can be considered assault, Mr. Qian. We have two witnesses who saw everything."

"Really?" Kun asks. It's a level of innocent Ten wasn't even sure he was capable of.

They're interrupted by a knock on the door as the vampire liaison returns. She's nearing fifty, but clearly lifts. Maybe crossfit. Maybe something less hard on the joints, because she moves without a hitch. Her grey pencil skirt highlights her thick thighs and the no-nonsense expression. Ten likes both of those in a woman.

"Good to see you again, Cindy," Kun says.

"Kun," she acknowledges without a smile. "Can I talk to you for a minute, detective?"

LeBrun looks between them, mutters "fuck" under his breath and stands so quickly that his chair nearly tips over. Ten can't hold back his snicker as the door locks behind him.

"Someone's in trouble."

Kun's confident grin returns. "There are perks to being the boss-boss."

"If I wasn't half dead, I would find you very attractive right now."

"Aren't you technically always half dead?" Kun replies. "You know, since you're a vampire."

"I take it back. I take it all the way back."

"Too late. I know a compliment when I hear it."

There's a shout from the hall, and the clanging of something metal. A beat, and then the door swings open again. Cindy sticks her head into the room. "Kun, would you mind joining me up front? There is some paperwork we'll need you to fill out. Mr. Lee, someone will be in to see you shortly."

"Are you charging him with something," Kun asks with a frown.

"No, no, nothing like that. But Ms. Kwon was quite insistent that you would know what to do with the vampires in her coterie?"

"I would," he says, only slightly hesitant.

"Go," Ten says, before Kun can protest again. "I'll be fine."

"Can I get you anything while you wait?" Cindy asks. "We have a few bags of synth around here somewhere."

"Ah, no thank you," Ten says. He'd rather suck on his own arm than drink whatever swill they have lying around. 

She nods like she understands. "We'll be with you soon."

It's eerie to sit in the interview room by himself, staring out at the one-way mirror and seeing nothing. He can't tell who is watching, but from his perspective, the room looks empty. It's not the first time he's done it, and, unfortunately, this probably won't be the last. Hazards of the profession. He definitely understands why solitude is used as an interrogation tactic. Too much silence and he's eager to hear another person's voice. Wants to talk back. 

Before they were legal citizens it was easier to slip away unnoticed. Poor wards and one good shadow and he was gone. Generally he could be out of the country before the police could even put a fake name to his face. Now they can flag his passport. Still, when he does get out of here, there will be a warm bed and good synth waiting for him. That's new and different. A good different, he thinks, enjoying the lingering heat of his blood.

Of course, when he does get out of here, he has other things to worry about. Yangyang, for one. Hopefully he didn't burn down the bar by accident. Ten's never seen anything like it. Elder vampires have power, yes, but not… all of them at once. Their magic is specific. Focused. His shadowdancing. Kun's thrall. Sicheng's pleasure. What Yangyang displayed was new and different, too. But a dangerous different.

He packages that thought up in mental box one and carefully unwraps another. The big box. The one he's been avoiding for weeks. Years. Decades. Centuries.

Kun's box.

They had had fifty years together. Fifty years of push and pull. Of joy and terror and everything in between. It was obvious why he'd fallen for Kun. Who wouldn't? Everyone around him seemed to be at least a little bit in love with him. He commanded respect. _Deserved_ respect. He was kind and brilliant and handsome in a way that made Ten want to mess him up. Drag him down to his level. 

None of that explains why Kun is in this shitty precinct with peeling beige paint on the walls, letting a detective with one foot out the door ask him pointed questions about things he'll never understand. Maybe a month ago, Kun owed him something. An explanation. Not that Ten wanted to hear it. Not this, though. Not loyalty. Not the affection he can't seem to turn down, even when he should. 

The door opening drags him from his morose ruminations. 

"I was very clear, Mr. Lee." 

Master Kwon strides into the room alone. Her hair is a severe black bob, her eyes gleam like two very angry sapphires. 

"Good evening, Master Kwon," Ten says with an insouciant wave. "Do you come here often?"

"Only when it cannot be helped."

She takes one dismissive glance at the terrible chair abandoned by Detective LeBrun and settles into a loom. It's impressive for someone so short. The power of age. 

For the first time, he realizes he still can't feel her presence. Panic wells in his chest, but he pushes it down. Current Ten has too many balls to juggle; the possibility that his sensitivity is just… gone will have to be examined later. Like after actual sleep.

"You are a problem, Ten Lee." She crosses her arms. Her pink Chanel jacket makes her look like CEO Barbie. "I prefer to rid myself of problems."

"You know there are still cameras in this room."

She sneers, her pink lips matching her jacket. "That wasn't a threat."

"It was a promise?"

"I can have you deported at any time."

"Now that _is_ a threat, unless I'm mistaken." Ten leans back in his chair as far as he can, his jacket gaping open. He hopes someone is ogling him through the mirror, since the camera can't pick it up.

"Not if you've proven yourself to be a menace to the good people of Canada."

"So do it."

"I'm sorry?"

"Do it. Have me deported." 

She clenches her jaw.

The chair squeaks as the legs hit the floor again. "You won't, though. Now, why could that be? Perhaps you just feel bad. I could have used some warning that Lady Burnett-Cecil was in the city before she showed up on my doorstep."

Her eyes flash emerald green. Then amethyst. And settle on sapphire again.

"Oh. Oh, oh, oh." Ten smirks. "You didn't know. Somehow an elder vampire came into your city — one with immense strength and her entire coterie I may add — and you didn't know. But now she's dead. And you don't have to worry about a challenge to your throne."

"Be that as it may," Master Kwon says, "It has taken some considerable influence to convince Detective LeBrun that you aren't a threat to our city. And now I have seven new dependents I wasn't anticipating."

"Sounds like you've had a rough night."

She sniffs. "I am doing this as a favor to you, Chittaphon Leechaiyapornkul. I expect it to be repaid in full."

Ten's hard stare doesn't waver. "Well, you have my card."

"That I do." With one final glare, she spins on her bubblegum pink heels and marches out of the room.

After a moment, the door opens again to a slightly shell-shocked Cindy. "Mr. Lee? Thank you for your patience."

Kun is waiting for him by the receptionist's desk. Lucas takes one look at him and wraps him in a too-tight hug. His ribs protest, but he doesn't. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches a mortified Henri and a docile John Mark follow Master Kwon out of the station like dogs with their tails tucked between their legs. Yet another potential issue for Future Ten. But for now, Lucas is blood-hot and whole. Alive.

They're all alive.


	15. Chapter 15

**__** _"Dating is for humans? What the fuck does that mean?" Yangyang said, his skeptical eyebrow practically in his hairline. Ten was already getting very tired of that look. Revealing that he spoke Mandarin had been a mistake. Now the kid never shut up. "And don't say it's one of those 'you'll understand when you're older' things."_

_"But you will understand better when you're older," Ten replied, his contrarian nature getting the best of him._

_That eyebrow climbed higher._

_Ten sighed. "Being a vampire isn't safe. Other vampires aren't safe. It's just best to not form emotional attachments."_

_"So what? You just don't like, feel things? Like a psychopath?"_

_"Oh, I am feeling something."_

_Yangyang rolled his eyes. "You've been a vampire for like, two hundred years, right?"_

_"About that."_

_"And in two hundred years you've never fallen in love?"_

_Ten's heart jumped into his throat. "I wouldn't say never."_

_"Good." Yangyang laid back on his narrow bed. "That shit sounded bleak."_

————

"Man, if I had known it was going to be this cold I would've suggested a basketball court or something. Something inside." Hendery shivers despite the massive coat hanging off his bony frame. He's even got chunky knit mittens on. They look homemade.

Ten has no sympathy. His wool coat looks good, but wasn't intended for this kind of weather. "You literally said 'we can't do this indoors.'"

"Blah," Hendery replies, shaking his face and rubbing his already red nose. "Okay. Okay. Let me grab my gear. The faster we start, the faster we can get back into the car."

"Is… is that a Caboodle?" Ten asks as Hendery pulls a be-glittered teal and pink plastic box from the back of his black 4Runner. There's a peeling Backstreet Boys sticker on the top.

Hendery hands him a broom. "It was Crystal's. Go sweep off that spot over there. It looks mostly level."

The parking lot of the park Hendery had suggested was completely empty, even though it was just after two on a Monday. With Christmas just days away, kids were definitely home from school, but, Ten supposed as he clenched his teeth to keep them from chattering, the cold was probably keeping them inside. It was definitely below freezing.

He did as Hendery instructed, making sure there wasn't any debris that could interfere with the array. The young magician nodded, inspecting the work. On hands and knees he sketches out the two-foot circle in white chalk, carefully filling in runes around the edge. A few snowflakes flutter down from the sky, catching on Ten's dark hair. Kun had offered him a hat but his vanity got the better of him and he turned it down. 

"Hurry," he whines, hands stuffed in his pockets. "I think it's starting to snow."

"It's done when it's done," Hendery grouses, sounding like an old man. "Do you want this whole place to catch fire? No. That would be very bad for you, me, the tiny animals, the little league teams…"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah." Ten jogs back to the SUV for the whole reason he's dragged both of them out here. Even though the device weighs less than a loaf of bread, it's heavy in his hand when he takes it. The clouds filter the sunlight into just a blue tint but as he pulls it out of the linen wrapping, it still shines with unrealized promise. 

"Are you sure you want to do this? You could sell it to a museum for a couple thousand dollars, at least."

"A couple hundred thousand."

Hendery's eyebrows fly up his head. "Wow. Okay. Or like, Ceec would love to study the fuck out of it."

"I'm sure." Ten tosses it to him. Hendery almost fumbles it with his cold fingers. "I can't have anyone figuring out what it does. Even your sister."

"So you did figure it out."

"In a manner of speaking."

It's been over twenty-four excruciating hours since he watched Yangyang get strapped to that post. Since he heard him scream until his throat gave out. Since he killed a woman for her hubris. 

"And?"

"Hendery, what did I _just_ say."

"Oh come on, that's hardly fair. I've helped you from the start!"

"And you're going to keep helping me. Unless we freeze to death."

"I'm going to start charging," Hendery mutters, but he pulls a black paint marker out of his kit and shakes it. "You're sure, though. For real. Because there's no going back once I paint on this bad boy."

"For this I have money to burn. Do it."

Hendery's tongue pokes out in concentration as he very carefully paints a rune on the curved surface of the larger bulb and sets it in the middle of his array. The glow of the device seems dimmer already, though it could just be the grey of the afternoon. Next comes the requisite salt, tracing the circle he chalked, and then he pulls out a roll of receipt paper and tears off a long stretch, scribbling a few more runes with the charcoal pencil he keeps stashed behind his ear. He lays that on the ground, just barely crossing the line of salt. 

Ten frowns. "What's that?"

"A fuse." 

"Huh. Never seen that before."

"My own invention. I, ah, singed my eyebrows really badly a few years ago." Hendery packs away his supplies, pulling out a green plastic paint brush that looks like it was reappropriated from a paint by numbers kit. 

Ten backs up even further. "You're sure this is safe?"

"Trust me," he says with a winning smile. "The theory is super solid."

"The theory?" Ten squawks.

"And away we go!" 

Hendery sticks the paintbrush into his mouth, wetting it with his saliva, and then quickly draws a rune at the end of his fuse. There's a moment when Ten begins to doubt the whole set up, but then the receipt paper starts to curl, red embers blackening the edges as if someone was holding a match to it. Another second and the heat flares into tiny flames, racing up the length of the fuse.

"Don't look directly at it," Hendery says just moments before the entire array bursts into a white-hot column of fire. 

It sears into Ten's retinas but he can't turn his head. Each flash of magic prickles at his skin, a ghost of a sensation. A week ago it would have been unbearable. Now he can hardly feel it. Ten smiles anyway. Better a little something than a whole lot of nothing. It had felt like he was missing an entire limb without it. 

There's a pop and a hiss, eruptions of purple, blue, red as the enchantments unspool, the brass unable to keep its form under the blast of intense heat. The key, mangled and misshapen, hangs around his neck from a long chain he stole from Yangyang's jewelry collection. It's as dead as metal can be, its own magic blown away in the explosion. Now, it's nothing more than a reminder. Of what he's been through. Of what he's survived. Of who he's chosen to be.

A fierce sense of satisfaction coils in his gut. He'll never be able to get his revenge on Mo Hengzhi. His sire is dead, has been for decades. But there's a grim pleasure to ensuring his legacy will go unfulfilled. All that's left to show for his efforts are his progeny. And they have forged paths he could never conceive of. Better paths.

Eventually, the flames die down on their own and Hendery licks his brush again, painting another rune in the air to douse it entirely. The array dissolves in a flicker of white light and they both are left blinking at the aftermath.

The asphalt bubbles in a neat circle, melted brass swirling into the tar. Without the heat of the magic, it cools rapidly, a marbled mixture of metal and black gravel. 

"Whoops," Hendery says. "I didn't think about that. I was kind of hoping we would have a souvenir."

Ten rolls his eyes. "And you wanted to move inside."

Snow drifts down around them, slow but steady, steaming on their molten patch of parking lot. Ten watches it silently. A little piece of him is tense, like he's waiting for something to jump out of the bushes and yell "gotcha!", but nothing does. It's just him and Hendery, and the occasional rumble of passing cars. 

"Come on, it's fucking cold." 

Ten sighs, his breath turning to fog. "Yeah, let's go."

For all that Hendery is willing to dive into hands-on magical theory, he is the most cautious driver Ten has ever ridden with. His hands stay firmly affixed to the wheel, ten-and-two. He checks every mirror five times before changing lanes. He never misses an opportunity to use his turn signal.

"What?" he says when Ten chuckles after he glides to a stop at a red light, at least five feet behind the white line.

"Nothing. I appreciate you doing this. I mean it when I say I will pay you. Send me your rates. Or I can put you on retainer."

Hendery shrugs. "Okay. But it won't be cheap. Even if I am doing this so Cat doesn't destroy my computer."

"I can afford it." Ten smiles out at the rows of houses as they roll by. "Would she really?"

"Absolutely," Hendery mutters, darkly. "I'm ninety percent sure my mom summoned a demon and it possessed MewMew as a baby."

Ten laughs. "That is Yangyang's type."

————

"Good timing," Dejun says from the couch. "He just woke up. I've got some synth on the stove." 

"Nothing on fire?" Ten asks. They've already had to replace the sheets twice.

Dejun's whole face lights up. "Nope! It's a good day. Hey Hendery."

Hendery waves. "Through there?"

"Yeah," Ten says. "Head on back, I'll be right in."

It's weird, being ensconced in the "guest suite" of Kun's building. On one hand, it's easier to have constant supervision for Yangyang and his quirky symptoms. On the other, Ten is always surrounded by people. Whether it's Dejun or Sicheng or Lucas or Kun himself. He hasn't had a moment to himself except asleep. And even that had been curled up next to Kun in the tiny bed across from Yangyang.

He needs to find some non-coterie adjacent housing soon. He should make a list. Or just ask Kun. He probably already has a list. He's a list maker.

Ten grabs two mugs from the open shelving — Garfield hating mondays and a scratched print of _Starry Night_ — and pours warm synth. There are, however, worse things than living with a synth scientist. 

In the bedroom, Yangyang is sitting up against the headboard, his arms crossed. "Ten, what is he doing here?" 

The angry vee of his eyebrows is worrying. The fine hairs of Yangyang's bangs float up off his forehead.

"Woah, baby, relax. Hendery is just gonna offer some magical expertise so we can figure out what's going on." He hands him the Garfield mug, which at least helps some of the tension leech from Yangyang's shoulders. "Feeling any better today?"

Even after the thrall had worn off, Yangyang had slept for nearly a full day. Kun's resourcefulness had produced an IV and a bag of synth, though his skin had hardened every time they attempted to insert a needle. Only with Ten stroking through Yangyang's hair did his subconscious calm enough to get him fed so he could heal.

"Yeah. I mean, my head hurts. But it's more chill than it was. Bass-y. Not snares." The drums of Yangyang's sensitivity had been pounding non stop. Not even Ten's infused oil seemed to help.

"Good. That's good."

Hendery sets his Caboodle on the nightstand. "I think we should probably get started, yeah?"

"I didn't know you were such a Backstreet fan," Yangyang says, but it's taunting, not annoyed. His hair settles.

"It was Crys'!" Hendrey pops the top of it with force. "Shirt off."

"The last time I heard that it was coming from your sister's mouth. In a very different context," Yangyang says. He pulls the stretched-thin t-shirt over his head. "A sexy context."

"I _will_ leave," Hendery says. "Ten, I swear I will."

"It's not my fault Cat can't resist all this."

"Oh my god," Ten interrupts before Hendery can do something drastic but ultimately deserved like stab Yangyang with his charcoal pencil. "Yangyang, gross. Please never talk about your sex life in my presence ever again. And stop antagonizing the witch who is _here to help you_."

"You're basically a skeleton," Hendery grumbles but he doesn't flee.

Ten takes it as a win.

Despite all the synth they've pumped into him, the scar on Yangyang's chest is still pink and raised. Fresh-looking. In normal circumstances it would have healed overnight, though it would have likely stayed on his skin forever. Magic tends to disrupt the healing cycle. But, Ten frowns, these are obviously not normal circumstances.

Hendery unrolls a thin piece of tracing paper, smoothing it out against the desk. His eyebrows do a complicated dance as he finally glances at the array drawn in flesh across Yangyang's ribs. "Wow. Someone really tried to fuck you up."

Yangyang snorts. "You can say that again."

"Okay. So this might tickle, but try to stay still. I just want to take a charcoal rubbing so I can get a better look at the runes without staring at your nipples."

A snort sneaks out of Yangyang, but he does his best to stay still as Hendery takes an etching of the scar. The bed starts vibrating as he tries to hold back a giggle. 

"Hendery," Ten warns.

"Almost done…"

The wave of force catches him squarely in the chest, sending him flying across the room. The lamp on the bedside table crashes to the floor, lightbulb shattering. Ten gets his hands up just in time to stop the Garfield mug from hitting him in the face, but synth splashes all over his white jumper. 

"Fuck me," Hendery groans from the floor. "I'm charging you hazard pay."

"Sorry," Yangyang apologizes. "It tickled."

Hendrey grimaces, pushing himself to his feet. "Clearly." 

Kun's head pops through the open door. "Everyone okay in here?"

"Well, I doubt even your dry cleaner can save this mohair, but otherwise, yes," Ten answers. 

His eyes flick from Ten to Yangyang to the mess on the floor. "I'll go get a broom."

"Thanks, babe."

Hendery mouths "babe" at Yangyang who mimes gagging.

"Did you get what you need?" Ten asks, pointedly ignoring them. 

"Oh. Yes!" 

He smooths the paper out against the wall and darkens a few marks to better read them. Ten picks his way over the broken glass to study it, too. Hendery squints at it for a moment and then says, "Yangyang, can you try something for me real quick?"

Yangyang shrugs. "I mean, sure?"

"Okay. I need you to concentrate. Close your eyes, breathe deeply, the whole deal. Don't look at me like that." Yangyang puts his skeptical eyebrow away and settles back against the headboard. "Alright. I want you to hold up your index finger. And picture it glowing with a white light. Can you do that?"

"Yeah." He points dutifully at the ceiling. 

"Eyes closed!"

"Fine. Fine." 

"A soft white glow. See it in your mind."

"Like E.T.?"

Hendrey chuckles. "Yeah, just like that. Yangyang phone home."

Ten has no idea what's going on, but he has to trust that Hendery has a method to his madness. It's worked before. 

Yangyang sighs, brow furrowed in concentration. "I don't think anything is happening."

"Ah, I don't know about that," Ten says.

The very tip of Yangyang's finger pulses white with light. He opens his eyes and it blinks out. 

"What the…" Yangyang looks at Hendery wide-eyed.

Hendery taps the array, smug. "This and this typically denote some sort of transference. This rune here and these two here," he draws a triangle in the air, "are trined to act as sort of a gateway. Which, where it's placed is uh… bad for your health."

Ten snorts. 

"Anyway," he plows on, "I would guess from the scarring that such a transfer was cut off abruptly."

"You guess correctly," Yangyang says slowly. "So why is my finger glowing?"

"Usually you need to summon magic with some kind of lifeforce, right? Urine, which isn't great since it's waste anyway. Saliva, tears, semen, or blood. Magic loves blood. Really puts the whole vampire thing in perspective."

"Hendery, focus," Ten says. 

"Right, so. Regardless of how you summon it, magic isn't discrete. It's not a chunk of cheese. It can't be boxed. It is energy. It flows. Like electricity. Or water. This transfer ended abruptly. The metaphorical dam slammed shut." He looks at them expectantly. "I think some got trapped on the other side."

Ten stares back blankly but Yangyang blinks.

"And I'm the other side."

"Exactly!"

"Okay," Ten says, trying to wrap his head around the concept. "So what? Now, Yangyang can just… think and do magic? That's impossible."

"I mean," Hendery gestures at the scorch marks on the wall then down at the broken glass on the floor, "seems pretty possible to me. I'd like to send this off to Cecilia to get her take on it, but yeah. Congrats on the magic, man."

"Thanks," Yangyang says, unconsciously running his hand across his scar.

Ten frowns. "He could just be like, a new kind of elder, maybe?"

"How old are you?" Hendery asks. 

"Sixty-four," Yangyang answers. "Uh, forty-four in vampire years."

"And you're dating my _sister?_ " Hendery squeezes his eyes shut. "Fuck. Okay. Yeah, no. That's almost as improbable, right? I'm not getting my lore wrong?" 

"Yeah," Ten sighs. "You're not wrong."

They all sit in awkward silence for a moment, each one of them contemplating the implications. Yangyang can't seem to stop looking at his hands. Hendery shifts his weight awkwardly from foot to foot. Normally, Ten would try to do something, say something, take charge, but he just has no idea what to do.

"It feels weird," Yangyang says. "Like there's something else living in my body. Like, I don't know. How I'd imagine a tapeworm feels. Or like, that thing from _Alien_."

"That can't be safe!" Ten looks at Hendery helplessly. "Can it?"

He just shrugs. "As far as I know, this has literally never happened before."

"Cool," Yangyang says but it's faintly sarcastic. 

It takes a moment to school his face but Ten does what he can. "So what now?"

"Well, I'll talk to Cat and Ceec and Crys. Maybe Crys. Sometimes she's cool and sometimes she's very Big-Sister-Knows-Best. Anyway, I'll see what we can come up with. I mean, really, I should take this to mom, but ah," Hendery shrugs again, "she would probably be more than a little disapproving of certain familial ties."

Yangyang has the good grace to look sheepish. "Is there any way to stop the…" He waves at the scorch marks, imitating Hendery's earlier gesture. 

"It seems to respond to your emotions. So when you were being tickled earlier, it probably lashed out to protect you."

"Protect me. From being tickled."

"Laughter is actually a fear response," Hendery says.

"No, that makes sense," Ten interrupts. "When you're calm, nothing happens. But when you're angry. Boom."

"So what do I do?"

"Meditation. Avoid stressful activities and potential triggers." Hendery grins. "Good stress, too."

"Oh fuck off."

Hendery snickers at Yangyang's evil eye. "But seriously, until we know more or can like, get this under tight control, it also means avoiding crowds. No museums or movie theaters. Concerts. No public transportation." 

"No flights," Ten says. 

"No flights," Hendery agrees.

Yangyang purses his lips. "So, we're going to be stuck here."

"Looks like," Ten says.

He glances up at Ten, a familiar mischief glittering in his eye. "If we're going to be here for awhile can we get a cat?"

————

"So?" Kun says, looking up from the couch where he's doing a crossword on his iPad. Hendery had left with repeated warnings for Yangyang, most of them some version of 'don't have sex with my sister.' "How'd it go?"

Ten, wearing his second favourite jumper, doesn't reply. He simply crawls under Kun's arm and directly into his lap, resting his face on his shoulder. 

"That good, eh?" Kun reaches to put the iPad down on the coffee table but holds on to Ten with his other hand so he doesn't accidentally dump him on the floor. 

"My son is a freak of nature." The cotton of Kun's hoodie is soft. He rubs his nose on it like somehow he can burrow deeper into it.

"I could've told you that."

Ten bites at him through the fabric. 

"Hey!"

"Only I'm allowed to say that." With a sigh, Ten forces himself to sit up and look at Kun directly. "It looks like we'll need to stick around the city for longer than expected."

Kun brushes Ten's hair out of his eyes. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Ten's heart thuds.

"Do you know how long?"

"Indefinite."

"Ah."

"Have I already overstayed my welcome?" Ten asks. 

It comes just as flirty as he intends, but there's a thread of worry in his pulse. Ten's already asked so much of Kun that at some point he won't have any more to give.

"Not with me." Kun's brown eyes are wide and earnest. "Not with me, okay?"

Ten swallows. "Okay."

"Master Kwon, on the other hand, might have some objections. But nothing I can't handle."

"Thank you," Ten says. That's two of a thousand. 

He leans down and fits their mouths together. It's meant to be nothing but a quick press of lips, a thank you in and of itself. But then Kun's hand finds its way into his hair and his lips part and Ten can't help himself. It feels too good; his blood runs too hot. He drags his teeth along Kun's bottom lip, making him gasp.

"Hey!" Yangyang says, walking past them to the hob. "No making out where I can see."

Ten groans and turns his head into the crook of Kun's neck. The traitor shakes underneath him with silent laughter. "Why did I ever decide to have a kid?"

"They bring joy and light to our lives," Kun says. He can feel the muscles of his cheek pulling into a grin. "Supposedly."

Yangyang pours himself a new mug of synth and then wanders back to his room without further comment. 

"You can't tell her about him."

"What?"

"You can't tell your Master about Yangyang." Ten looks him in the eye, as serious as he can be. "She won't take it well. She'll act like he's a threat to her."

"Ten, I…"

"Promise. Promise me. I just want to keep him safe. That's all."

Kun sighs, head hitting the back of the couch. "I promise. Yangyang's secret is safe with me. Us." He sounds so tired. "I think we should talk, though, about this."

Ten's bloodstream turns to ice. It had been nice while it lasted. He scrambles off of Kun's lap. "Don't worry, I don't need any more favors. I know we've already disrupted your life enough."

"Hey, hey, no." Kun grabs at his hand before he can even stand. "Why do you never believe me when I say things?"

Ten shrugs. He wishes desperately that he was still wearing his other sweater. This one is too tight to hide in. 

"Fuck." Kun scrubs a hand over his eyes. "I started that badly. Okay. So, let me try again. I am very happy you're staying. Ecstatic. Okay? Over the moon."

"Okay," Ten says. He can't bring himself to sound convinced.

Kun huffs out a wry laugh. "Like that. Come here." He tugs on Ten until he relents, letting himself be tucked into Kun's side like a disgruntled cat. "Is that better?"

It is, but it feels like too much to say so. Instead, Ten picks at invisible lint on his jeans. His ribs twinge as he settles into Kun's side. He grimaces, more at himself than the pain. He'd come so close to losing everything again. And yet here he is, being a baby about the very idea of Kun telling him they're done. 

"Yeah," he mumbles.

"Good. Good." Kun squeezes his shoulder, lightly. "Which is kind of what I wanted to talk about. I may have called Mary in a little bit of a panic while you were out with Hendery."

Ten startles, head whipping up so fast he almost clips Kun in the chin. "You didn't…"

"No, I didn't tell her what happened. Not in detail. She'd be required to report some of that and I don't want to put that on her." He shakes his head. "I just needed some help processing. That's all. It's been an overwhelming few days." 

"That's one word for it."

"Exactly. It's just been a lot. And you. And everything I feel about you."

"Yeah?" Ten's heart rate speeds up.

Kun smiles at him, entirely too fond. "Don't act like you don't know."

"Know what?" Ten flutters his lashes at him until Kun laughs. 

"You're such a flirt."

"Only with people I like." 

Kun's grin could power the city, it's so bright. "I like you, too."

Ten can't feel anything but the rush of blood to his head. "You like me, huh?"

"Yeah. I do." He clears his throat, voice dropping into his serious business tone. "Probably too much sometimes. That's… why I called Mary."

Not throwing himself off the couch takes possibly the most restraint Ten has ever exercised in his entire life. His heart hammers against his healing ribs. 

"I want this," Kun says quickly. "Us. I don't think I can be around you and not want you. It's pretty much always been that way. But also it's not super-duper healthy sometimes. How much I want you."

"'Not super-duper healthy'. Wow, she sounds super-duper professional."

"Ten."

"Sorry, I'm sure she's fantastic." He curls further into himself. "The fucking best."

"She _is_ the fucking best. And I agree with her. We're not young anymore. By any standard. We both have responsibilities. Things that are important. It's not just us, now."

Ten sighs. Kun is, as always, right. If it came down to it, if Ten was forced to choose, Ten would pick Yangyang over Kun. Every time. And he wouldn't even feel guilty about it. Doesn't feel that guilty about it. He knows with one look at the set of Kun's jaw that he's thinking the same thing.

"Mary suggested that maybe we set some boundaries. Take things slow, for instance."

At Ten's raised eyebrow, Kun snorts.

"No sex."

"I'm sorry, but I hate her."

Kun pinches his side. "It's a good idea."

"It's a terrible idea. But fine. What else."

"Not living together."

"Agreed."

"What, really?" he asks.

Ten giggles at his flummoxed expression. "Have you heard just how loud you and Dejun are? It's already on my list. I can still get my synth from you, though, right?"

"Okay. Cool. Yes, of course. Everyone else's is terrible." Kun takes a second to collect himself before powering through. "Um, so this one's kind of a dealbreaker."

The beginnings of a good mood evaporate as quickly as they came.

"I want you to find a therapist. _Not_ Mary. But I can get you a list of arcane-friendly ones from her. And there are lots of good resources for how to interview therapists online. It's important to find one that fits our particular version of PTSD."

Ten gapes. "Therapy. You're serious."

"Uh, yeah?" Kun says.

"Fuck. Therapy. That's your dealbreaker."

"Yep."

"Fine. Fine. I guess I'm going to fucking therapy."

"Really?" Kun looks so delighted Ten's heart breaks a little.

"Yeah," Ten says, and he actually means it this time. "I guess really."

"Okay. Cool. That's great. That's so great." Kun's heartbeat is so loud in his veins he doesn't even have to try to hear it. "I'm supposed to ask about your boundaries, too. Dealbreakers."

Ten blinks. "I haven't really considered that? The living together thing, I guess." He ponders for a moment. "Oh. I _am_ going to keep working. Though I am going to make some changes to how I vet my clientele. For obvious reasons."

"I support small business owners one-hundred percent," Kun says in his best boardroom voice.

"You nerd."

Kun just grins. He's too good. 

"I suppose there is one thing, but it's not like, a dealbreaker, really."

"Lay it on me."

Ten chews on his lip, trying to find the words. Blood wells up under the point of his fang. It tastes like him. "I just. I just want to know why?"

"Why what?"

"Why go through all of this," his arm flings out, circling like that can encompass the vast everythingness between them, "for me?"

"Oh. _Oh._ " Kun buries his nose in Ten's hair. "Do you remember when that scholar came to visit Master Mo? He was some kind of human mage."

The memory is faint, but Ten nods.

"He made me fetch _so much_ tea. Pots and pots of it. And the voice he used when he would order me around. Mo may have beat me, but he didn't act like I was stupid." Kun's hair tickles Ten's forehead but he doesn't dare move. "You saw me, out behind the shed."

"You were kicking the dirt like it owed you a gambling debt."

Kun chuckles. "And calling him every name I could think of."

"I didn't even think you knew half those words," Ten says. It comes more clearly to him the more Kun talks. He had been sitting on top of the lean-to, his only safe spot.

"Well, you laughed." Kun kisses his head. "You laughed. You didn't scold me. You didn't frown. You didn't lecture me. You saw me being a terrible spoiled child and you were delighted." 

"It was the first time I'd ever seen you be less than perfect."

"I was so afraid. But then you never tried to use it for your own gain. I could just… be around you. Even with Dejun and Sicheng who have been with me forever, there's still this feeling of expectation, you know? That I'll always have the answers. That I'll always be the nice one. The responsible one. But it's hard to be that way all the time. Even for them. And their eyes when I slip up and disappoint them… But you liked it. Still like it. When I'm not perfect." 

"Kun," Ten says, his voice cracking. "Love."

"So, yeah. That's why."

Ten has to touch him. Has to pull on his hair until he can kiss his face. Every part of it, over and over, until they're both laughing too hard to even press their lips together for a second. Their hearts beat in time as he smiles up at those soft brown eyes. Maybe therapy won't be so bad after all.

"Are you absolutely sure about the going slow thing?" Ten asks, pulling his lip between his teeth again. Kun's gaze tracks every millimetre as it springs back, wet.

"I… "

The notification on his phone startles them both. 

"Oh fuck, what time is it?"

"Um," Kun glances over the back of the couch towards the microwave. "Five-ish."

Ten surges up, giving him one last kiss. "I've got to go."

"What?"

He slithers off the couch, dashing for the door. It's only with his years of practice that he can slide on his boots and call an Uber at the same time. "I'll explain later."

————

Bells tinkle as the door swings shut behind him. Somehow, the smell of dust is comforting in his nostrils. The shop is empty of patrons — not entirely surprising considering he's literally never seen anyone else here — but also is less crowded with _stuff._ If Ten was just a few inches taller he might even be able to see over a few of the piles of furniture. There are paintings missing that he knows used to occupy the walls by the faded outlines where they once hung.

Still, he winds his way through the familiar maze with a smile on his face. 

"We're closed," comes a call from the back.

"Then you should probably lock the door."

Cordelia Catchpole looks up from her ledger, startled. Her glasses slip down her long nose, balancing precariously on just the very tip of it. "Mr. Lee!"

"The one and only."

She snorts. "There are about ten thousand Lees in this city alone."

"But none quite so charming as myself." Ten leans on the glass jewelry case. It's almost been entirely emptied. He's impressed. When Cordelia Catchpole makes her mind up about something, she moves quickly. 

"So you say." She pushes her glasses back up her nose, surveying him with those cool hazel eyes. "You can't possibly be out of oil already. And even if you were, I don't have another vial to spare. I wasn't planning on making more until after the holidays."

"No, thank you for asking. I didn't come here to buy more oil. Though it's been a lifesaver. Quite literally."

"You're very welcome." She lets the words hang in the air between them, like she knows she has the upper hand. 

He grins. She must have been a very good douser. "I was wondering if you were still planning on moving to Edmonton."

"Unfortunately, it looks inevitable." Her proud shoulders don't slump, but it's a near thing. "As you can see, I've already begun selling off the stock."

"I do see. And the store?"

"We'll be selling."

"That seems a shame."

"Fine, I'll bite. Why _are_ you here, Mr. Lee?"

"It turns out I'll be staying in the area for longer than anticipated."

"Oh?" 

"And, I thought to myself, maybe it would be nice to invest in the local economy."

She nods, a knowing smile spreading across her narrow face. "Always a good idea. Did you have a particular industry you were interested in?"

"Well," Ten says, looking around at the cluttered space. There's so much potential his chest aches with it. "I was thinking about antiques."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here it is. This fic consumed three months of my life (I quite literally started the doc on December 8th). It felt like I was eating, sleeping, breathing vampires. I now know more Fun Blood Facts than any non-medical professional should. I'm pretty sure some of my google searches have now gotten me on an FBI watch list.
> 
> This fic would be nothing without [@unlockedrookie](https://twitter.com/unlockedrookie). Thank you for being my eternal cheerleader, hand holder, idea-bouncer, and graphic designer. (She made my fantastic header! You should hit her up on twitter and commission one, too!)
> 
> Of course, I can't say enough thank yous to [homiten](https://twitter.com/homitendathot) whose feedback kept me going when I was feeling down, and was always ready to answer my random Vancouver (Fangcouver!) questions. You should go read her incredible NCT fics!
> 
> Also I have to say thank you to N, for sending me a link to the After Midnight lyric video all those months ago with "I think you might like these guys." I did. I do. They make me feral. And a big thank you to my new friend A, who is always here to further the Yangyang bite things agenda and ask potentially embarrassing questions about Cantonese puns. 
> 
> I feel like I owe even more thank yous, but this is already getting long. 
> 
> I finally made an Ao3 twitter. Come say hi [@boulevarddouble](https://twitter.com/boulevarddouble)!


End file.
